


The Hostage Prince

by BenAndWaffles



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Family Bonding, Finding Family, Gen, Jon-centric, Self-Esteem Issues, the Jon/Arya doesn't start until she's old enough so it isn't icky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-17 04:29:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 63,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13651458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BenAndWaffles/pseuds/BenAndWaffles
Summary: "A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing.""The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives."Jon grows up lonely and unloved in King's Landing. When he is finally released to go North, will he be able to be able to find the love of family? Will he be able to accept it?





	1. Prologue

Jon scowled fiercely as a very pregnant Lyanna Stark wobbled down from the galley that had brought her from Dorne to King’s Landing, leaning heavily on Ser Arthur Dayne. Lord Stark rushed forward to help support his sister. Though Lyanna looked uncomfortable and a little nauseated, it seemed to be nothing life threatening.

Jon hated her for that. It wasn’t fair that she, who had been the catalyst for the thrice-damned rebellion, would live while his silver prince—well, silver _king_ , now—lay slowly dying in Maegor’s Holdfast.

The people gathered around the docks were taking their cue from their new queen, who was silently observing her new sister-wife with a serene expression on her face. Elia Martell was certainly more gracious than he, Jon thought grimly. The gentle queen had all the reason in the world to snub the younger woman, and privately Jon believed Lyanna deserving of anything from cool disdain to fiery anger from the Dornish queen.

Instead, Queen Elia greeted her with a kiss to the cheek.

That only made the rage in Jon burn stronger. 

He turned and stormed away before the royal party could begin their journey to the Red Keep. As the Hand of the King, he knew he should stay and greet the new… queen? Princess? Whore? He wasn’t sure what to call her. As someone who had nearly lost everything in the rebellion, though, he couldn’t stomach the sight of her.

It was only through the Mother’s Mercy that King Aerys had not dismissed him as Hand and exiled him after that disaster of a battle at the Stoney Sept. And he had given thanks to each of the Seven, even the unlucky Stranger, that he had been able to be at his prince’s side at the Trident. It had been him who had pulled Rhaegar backwards and away from the deadly blow from Robert Baratheon’s hammer that would have caved in his chest. After that, the royal army had been able to beat back the rebels, and after Robert himself had fallen, they had subdued them enough to wrest a surrender from Eddard Stark, Jon Arryn, and Hoster Tully.

Not that it mattered for either the prince or the king.

What exactly had transpired in the Red Keep while they were fighting off the rebels, Jon wasn’t sure they would ever know. Rhaegar had been injured before the rebels surrendered and had been delirious with fever. Jon and a small host had ridden ahead to King’s Landing and had been shocked to be greeted with the sight of Jaime Lannister standing over the bloody body of the king.

Things had quickly devolved from there, so much so that Jon had almost wished the rebels had won, if only to save himself the grief of the days that followed.

Rhaegar had been swiftly crowned as soon as he arrived in King’s Landing, despite the infection which had persisted even with Grand Maester Pycelle’s diligent care. His first act as king had been to pardon Stark, Tully, and Arryn, on the condition that they bent the knee. When Jon had asked his friend _why_ , voice cracking with emotion as he thought of how these men had torn the realm apart, Rhaegar had smiled sadly before answering.

_Because he had promised Lyanna_.

It all came back to the wolf bitch, Jon thought darkly as he walked into the courtyard of the Keep. Before he could go any further though, the bells of Baelor’s Sept began to toll and his heart froze in his chest.

_No._

He raced through the Keep at an undignified pace, reaching Maegor’s Holdfast and the king’s chambers in record time. Grand Maester Pycelle and Barristan Selmy were standing vigil at the king’s bedside and gave him a solemn look as he walked in.

“It happened faster than we expected,” Pycelle informed him mournfully. “The infection…”

“You rang the damn bells before informing me or the queen?!?” Jon snarled.

Pycelle looked uncomfortable under his criticizing gaze. “It’s tradition to—”

“Damn tradition!” he snapped, feeling as if the world had slipped out from under him and nothing was keeping him planted on the ground. “You had no authority to make that call!”

“Lord Connington,” Ser Barristan said in a deep and calm voice. “Perhaps now is not the time. I’m sure Queen Elia and Queen Lyanna will have need of you.”

His heart hardened once more at hearing that bitch called _queen_.

He wasn’t allowed to dwell on the thought. The death of the king threw the capital into a frenzy and, as Hand of the King, it fell to him to steer them once more into peace.

At just over two years old, King Aegon VI Targaryen was crowned King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms in the Sept of Baelor the day after they lay Rhaegar to rest. Queen Elia had seemed more drained than grieved during the funeral and looked even more lifeless at the coronation. The wolf bitch had been deathly pale during both, relying on her brother to keep her upright.

The Dowager Queen Rhaella, who had arrived from Dragonstone just in time to lay Rhaegar to rest, had gripped Prince Viserys tightly to her side while placing a protective hand on her protruding abdomen, as if to assure herself that her other two children were safe. 

It had been Rhaella who had informed Jon that he was now Lord Protector of the Realm in addition to being Hand, as if it were a foregone conclusion that he would take the position.

In hindsight, Jon couldn’t say that he was surprised. Lord Qarlton, Lord Symond, and Lord Lucerys had been far too loyal to King Aerys for anyone to be comfortable with their appointment. Very few of the Targaryen loyalists in the rebellion fought because they were inspired by Aerys’s rule, after all. Pycelle and Varys could not be trusted. That left only Jon and Ser Gerold as the only members of the Small Council who were remotely acceptable.

With the royal family split into three, with Rhaella and her children at Dragonstone, Elia and hers traveling to Sunspear, and the wolf bitch and her unborn brat likely to go off to Winterfell, the Kingsguard would be stretched far enough. Jon was the obvious choice.

Not that the new regent had to be on the Small Council, but Rhaella had given him a knowing smile and told him that his devotion to Rhaegar would surely transfer to the realm that Rhaegar loved.

Which is how Jon Connington ended up being crushed to death between the overwhelming

task of holding together a war-torn realm and the overpowering grief caused by losing the man he loved.

 

#

 

After he had appointed new men to the Small Council, replacing those he could and tolerating those he must, he assembled them together to discuss what to do about the once-rebel lords, knowing that he could not undo the pardons granted to them by Rhaegar before his death.

“There must be restrictions placed on them,” Lord Randyll Tarly, the new master of laws, insisted.

“Hostages are always good peacekeepers,” Prince Oberyn Martell suggested lazily, the master of ships’ sharp grin belying his careless attitude.

“The realm cannot heal if over half of the Seven Kingdoms are being held ransom with hostages,” Varys counseled. “And we must remember that a daughter of one of the rebel kingdoms may be about to give birth to King Aegon’s heir apparent.”

Jon scowled and sent a prayer to the Father that the wolf bitch birthed a girl.

“All the more reason to treat them harshly,” Lord Gyles Rosby, the master of coin, stated firmly. “They should not be rewarded with a royal child for their rebellion. We should tax them severely.”

“It is the smallfolk who suffer most from harsh tax penalties,” Pycelle argued dourly. “If the smallfolk are unhappy, the realm will suffer even more.” 

“Then hostages are the best avenue,” Tarly said. “And I suggest we also restrict their movements outside of their own kingdoms.”

Jon stroked his beard at that, considering the implications. A dark smile crept over his face. It would be very satisfying to separate the wolf bitch from her family. Surely that would cause her the same pain that she had caused him. Wolves were pack animals. She would be the crown’s hostage in King’s Landing, and maybe he could even ship her brat off to Dorne or Dragonstone to be fostered with the other Targaryen children.

It would be no more than she deserved after ripping the realm apart and causing the death of his beloved Rhaegar.

They discussed hostages for a good while after that, finally deciding that the Tyrells would take Renly Baratheon as their hostage and Edmure Tully would be sent to Dorne. Lyanna, of course, would stay in King’s Landing. That left Jon Arryn as a problem as he had no family anyone thought would serve as a valuable hostage, but they all agreed that the man who rebelled by refusing to send Aerys Eddard Stark’s head would also refuse to do anything that might harm his kin.

Of course, Lyanna Stark had to mess up everything there, as well.

 

#

 

“I’ve already lost my sister and now you want to take her son from me!?” Eddard Stark growled at him, for once displaying the wolf blood that had been so prominent in his brother Brandon.

Jon kept the hate off his face as he stared at the other man, resolutely not looking at the brat in his arms. Less than a week old and already Jon knew that he would look like a Stark. He had broken a vase against a wall when he had learned that Stark had named the boy Jon, no doubt after his foster father and the long dead Jon Stark. 

Perhaps he could have seen the babe as his silver prince’s son rather than the wolf bitch’s brat if he had a true Targaryen name.

“Your sister was to be our Northern hostage,” Jon explained, forcing himself to remain calm. “We still require a hostage.”

“He is the king’s _heir_ ,” Stark hissed. “What use is he as a hostage? You wouldn’t _dare_ lift a hand against him.”

Jon gave him a cold smile. “Accidents happen, particularly to young children.” 

Fury blazed on Stark’s face as he reached for a sword which wasn’t there. Jon smirked in triumph. Forbidding any rebel to have a sword inside the Red Keep had been Ser Gerold’s idea. 

“Now hand the babe over, or I’m afraid I shall have to bare steel,” Jon continued, placing a hand on the pommel of his own sword. “And who knows how the boy might fare in a struggle.”

Stark’s eyes burned with rage as he realized he was caught. His arms tightened around the baby before his whole body seemed to slump. He pressed a kiss to the baby’s head before glaring up at Jon. “Send him to Dorne,” he demanded. “Let him be with his brother and sister.”

That had been Jon’s original plan, but the idea of taking orders from Stark galled him. “No. He shall remain in King’s Landing. And _you_ will not set foot outside of the North without the crown’s permission.”

“Without your permission,” Stark pointed out with a scowl.

“If that’s how you want to see it,” he replied. “Now, the babe, and then I expect you to be on your way out of the city.”

Stark looked down at the brat again, murmuring something Jon could not hear before pressing a final kiss to his head.

Jon tried not to look too gloating when he took the child from Lord Stark’s arms.


	2. Age 8

Jon flexed his shoulders awkwardly in the stiff doublet and frowned at the feeling. The silver chain around his neck felt oddly heavy, and the fancy leather boots with the silver details were too tall, hitting his knees at just the right spot to make bending them more difficult.

He tried not to let the uncomfortable clothing dampen his spirits. Today was a happy day, after all. Today was the day when he finally got a to meet a member of his family. For an eight-year-old boy who had been alone for his entire life, the idea of _family_ sent a thrill through him.

Well, he hadn’t been all alone, of course. In a city as big as King’s Landing and in a place as busy as the Red Keep could be with the many nobles that came and went, it was hard to ever really be alone. It was even harder with Ser Oswell trailing after him like a silent shadow. 

Jon tried very hard to behave for the knight. Most days, he was the only one that would say more than two or three words to him. Everyone else seemed to avoid him like the plague. The nobles, servants, and other guards certainly didn’t bother speaking to him unless absolutely necessary.So he tried not to make Ser Oswell too cross by running off on his own, but he really couldn’t help it sometimes, when his room began to feel more like a prison than a royal chamber.

But not today, he thought excitedly as he left his bedchamber and walked to his solar, where the servants had set out his breakfast. Today, he was finally going to meet a member of his family and the Red Keep felt like the grandest castle in the world. 

Jon picked at his breakfast, too excited and nervous to eat. Lord Connington told him he would send someone to fetch him when he was needed in the courtyard for the welcoming party. He knew that they were due to arrive later in the morning, and that he would likely not get to eat again until the feast planned for tonight because of all the fuss that was going to be happening in the Red Keep, but he still couldn’t do more than nibble on his bacon. 

Gods, what would he be like? Would he look like Jon? Probably not, he decided immediately. Nobody looked like him. But something in their faces might match, and wouldn’t that be something?

His knees bounced as he waited for word that it was time. He would have gotten up and walked around the solar, but the new boots pinched his toes slightly and he didn’t want his feet to hurt by the end of the day. He couldn’t leave the room because what if he missed the messenger and ended up late? That would be a terrible first impression. Blood would probably only get him so far in getting his uncle to like him, especially since nobody else really seemed to.

That thought saddened him for a moment before he resolutely pushed it away. No, this was family. Family loved each other. Of course his uncle would like him.

He held onto that thought until Ser Oswell knocked on the door and entered his solar without waiting for a response.

“It’s time, my prince,” the knight told him. Jon’s mouth twisted at the title. No one ever called him by his name. It was always “my prince” or “my lord.” Maybe his uncle would be different.

“Do you know what he’s like?” he asked anxiously as they walked through the corridors, Jon slowing his pace so that Ser Oswell was forced to walk beside him and not behind him as he usually did.

“It’s been a long time since I have seen him,” came the answer. “I suspect he’s changed a great deal in the meantime.”

Jon was far from satisfied at that, but knew it was pointless to press him for anything further. Ser Oswell was a man of few words and did not waste those words on idle conversation. Jon was happy to have him around, though, if only because the knight was the only person that cared to spend any time with him.

Even if that time spent was done out of his duty to guard the heir of the king.

The courtyard was crowded, not just with lords and ladies but with guards and servants as well. Jon shrank back as the press of people overwhelmed him a bit, though the people nearest him parted automatically at the sight of the towering Kingsguard at his back. Ser Oswell guided him forward with a light press on his shoulder, as the people he passed all dipped their heads at him in a cursory manner. 

He smiled awkwardly and nodded back. He was a pitiful prince when it came to greeting his subjects, but he figured it was excusable since he knew many of them didn’t really consider him to be a prince or consider themselves to be his subjects. That suited him just fine, though, since being a prince seemed like a lot of work to him.

Lord Connington gave him a cold look when Jon took his place at his side. He did his best to ignore the Hand and Lord Protector. The Lord of Griffin’s Roost was just one of many who didn’t like him. Usually that bothered him, but not today.

Not when he was moments away from meeting his uncle.

Jon could hear the sounds of horses getting closer, and his heart hammered with excitement. He lifted himself up on his tiptoes and craned his head, hoping to catch the first glimpse of his uncle as he turned the bend of the street that would bring him to the gates of the keep. A firm hand grabbed his shoulder and forced him back flat on his feet.

He glanced up at the Hand just in time to see Ser Oswell growl, “Lord Connington,” in warning and place a hand on the pommel of his sword. The lord made a dismissive sound but removed his hand from Jon’s shoulder.

Jon smiled up at Ser Oswell, who only nodded at him seriously before tilting his head forward to indicate that Jon should turn forward again.

He looked back towards the gates and didn’t bother keeping the grin off of his face when a majestic black horse pranced into the gates, with a majestic rider astride him, followed by a whole retinue of men and horses.

The voice of a herald called out suddenly, “Presenting Prince Viserys of House Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone!”

Jon’s grin dimmed in confusion, not only at the rather unnecessary introduction but also at the title. Prince of Dragonstone was the title historically held by the heir apparent to the Iron Throne, which, as King Aegon’s brother, was _Jon_. So why was his uncle using it?

He guessed it made sense, though. The title had been used by heirs that had usually called Dragonstone home. Jon had never even _been_ to Dragonstone, so why should he be considered its prince?

He decided not to worry about it. Who cared who had what title? What did it matter anyway?

Try as he might, Jon could see nothing of himself in the striking features of Viserys Targaryen. He had seen the portrait of his father a dozen times in Lord Connington’s solar, and there was definitely no doubt that his uncle was Rhaegar’s brother. Along with the traditional Targaryen coloring, Viserys also had the same sharp jaw law of his father and the same straight nose. Even his hairstyle was the same as the portrait, though Jon figured that might be more because of choice than blood.

His eyes shifted to the man in white riding slightly behind his uncle on his right. Jon had never met the man before, but Jon would wager that he was Ser Jonothor Darry. If he remembered correctly, Ser Jonothor and Ser Barristan Selmy were the two Kingsguard that were stationed to guard the Targaryens on Dragonstone. And the white knight with his uncle was definitely not as old as Ser Barristan would be.

Viserys rode hid horse to within ten feet of where Jon stood with Lord Connington before he pulled up on the reins and dismounted gracefully.

“Welcome, my prince,” Lord Connington greeted, bowing deeply at the waist. Jon couldn’t help but think that the title was said with more sincerity than it ever was when directed at him. “Welcome to King’s Landing. I hope your tour of the crownlands was a success.”

“As much as can be expected,” his uncle replied in a dismissive tone that Jon didn’t like. He didn’t dwell on it, though. Who knew what had happened on the journey to make it unpleasant. Viserys’ suddenly looked at him, raising an elegant eyebrow. “Well, aren’t you going to bow to your prince?”

Jon started at that, looking from his uncle to Lord Connington in confusion. The Hand looked at him expectantly, but Jon wasn’t sure _what_ was expected of him. He wasn’t supposed to bow. Maester Lorezo had taught him that. Other than the gallant bows given to highborn ladies, the only people he was supposed to bow to was his brother and whatever wife and children he ended up having. The rules had sounded very complicated to Jon when Maester Lorezo explained them, but he had managed to absorb that much.

He felt like all eyes in the courtyard were staring at him, waiting for him to mess up. Thankfully, Ser Oswell stepped in to save him.

“My prince, may I introduce your nephew, Prince Jon Targaryen, Prince of the Seven Kingdoms and heir to the Iron Throne?” he said, speaking more smoothly than Jon had ever heard him speak before. “It’s no wonder you did not know him. His looks favor his mother’s family.”

Jon gave a tentative smile. “I am pleased to finally meet you, uncle.”

“Likewise,” Viserys replied shortly, a tight smile on his face before he turned to speak with Lord Connington once more.

Jon hung back as the Hand began leading the prince’s party inside. Most of the newcomers would be housed in the Maidenvault, but Jon knew that Viserys would be led to chambers prepared for him in Maegor’s Holdfast. When Jon first learned that he would no longer be alone in the royal wing, he had been delighted. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

He shifted his weight uncertainly as the courtyard slowly cleared out, most no doubt going to their own chambers to prepare for the feast that night. With his own chambers so close to Viserys’, he didn’t know if he wanted to go back to them so soon. It was probably better to wait for his uncle to settle into his chambers and rest before risking bumping into him. Jon was sure that his surly attitude must be because he was tired from the journey.

Of course, that left him with nowhere to go, really. He knew that if Lord Connington saw him lurking about the keep, he’d scold Jon for being underfoot. His clothing was too impractical to explore the secret passages and hidden nooks of the keep or to go out into the city.

Sighing, he turned towards the library, hoping to find refuge there. He wasn’t particularly studious, but no one ever bothered him there. His path was blocked, however, by a tall, dark figure with fiery black eyes.

Jon instinctively took a step back. He didn’t know that Prince Oberyn was back in King’s Landing. The master of ships spent most of his time in Dorne despite his position on the Small Council.

Jon knew his fear of the man was irrational. Even if the man was called the Red Viper, he was also the uncle of his siblings and the nephew of a knight of the Kingsguard. He wouldn’t do anything to cause a scandal to either. Still, whenever Jon looked into those dark eyes, Jon wasn’t sure he could depend on rationality keeping him from doing anything.

“My prince,” Oberyn greeted with a sharp smile and a sweeping bow that felt mocking to Jon. “I see you had a happy little family reunion.”

He forced a smile on his face, knowing it would do him no good to rise to the older man’s bait. “I am very happy to have family in the Red Keep. My uncle and I have much to learn from each other.”

The Dornishman snorted. “The only thing your uncle wants to learn from you is how he can get rid of you. That boy just wants the crown.”

Jon furrowed his brow. “My brother has the crown, and my sister is next in line after me.”

“Rhaenys won’t inherit anything as long as a male Targaryen lives,” Oberyn replied with a wave of his hand. “No one wants a repeat of your ancestors’ Dance. But if Viserys gets rid of _you_ , how long do you think it will be until he comes after Aegon?”

A stab of jealousy shot through Jon at the familiarity and fondness with which Oberyn spoke his siblings’ names. It was not fair that this man knew them while they were strangers to their own brother. His distraction allowed Ser Oswell an opportunity to answer for him.

“The Kingsguard are perfectly capable of keeping the king and his family safe,” he stated in a tone that brooked no argument.

The Red Viper smirked disdainfully though. “Your ridiculous vows will keep you from laying a finger on Prince Viserys if he attacks his nephew. Forgive me if I don’t trust my king’s life to men who would let words stop them from defending their charge.” With that, the master of ships stalked away.

Jon turned to look at Ser Oswell with confused eyes. “My uncle wouldn’t really hurt me, would he? We’re family!” Prince Oberyn was only trying to scare him. If Viserys was a threat to him, Oberyn wouldn’t have warned him. The Dornishman cared little about his well being.

“Perhaps you should withhold judgment until you know him better,” Ser Oswell advised. “Now, I will escort you to your chambers and have some luncheon brought up to you. I know you barely touched your breakfast and the feast is hours away.”

Jon gave him a grateful smile. It was hardly the place of his Kingsguard knight to order him meals from the servants, but Ser Oswell never seemed to mind stepping in to do little things like that. Jon wasn’t sure what he would have done without him.

 

#

 

Jon managed to avoid meeting his uncle or anyone in his party until the feast that night, where he was forced to sit at the head table, with Lord Connington on his left and his uncle on his right. Neither looked particularly happy at the seating arrangements, but Jon knew Lord Connington would never disregard propriety and seat Jon anywhere else. Personally, Jon would prefer to be able to forego feasts altogether. They never were any fun to him.

This one was particularly tortuous as, despite Jon’s hopes, it did not appear that rest had improved his uncle’s mood.

Jon had pushed away his own discomfort and tried to talk to Viserys, but he had merely gotten a dark glare for his troubles before Viserys and Lord Connington began to deliberately talk over him.

He poked sullenly at his food. Of course, Lord Connington and his uncle would like each other. Jon had no chance at getting his uncle to like _him_ if he liked the Lord Hand. Lord Connington was sure to tell Viserys about all of Jon’s faults.

He wanted to turn around to catch a glimpse of Ser Oswell, wanting to see at least one friendly face, but he was sure Lord Connington would be angry at him for his lack of attention. Never mind that no one was even _talking_ to him.

He was grateful when the meal was mostly over and the singing and dancing began because it meant he could excuse himself. Lord Connington was quick to wave him off, but his uncle’s lilac eyes followed him as he left the Great Hall, Ser Oswell on his heels.

“He doesn’t like me,” Jon muttered sadly as they climbed the stairs to the royal wing. “Did I do something wrong?”

Ser Oswell sighed. “Prince Viserys grew up as the most powerful person on Dragonstone. His mother, your grandmother, died giving birth to your aunt, Princess Daenerys, and he had no one to guide him save his Kingsguard.”

Neither did he, Jon thought with a frown. He didn’t use that as an excuse to be mean to anyone. He didn’t say that, though, not when he knew Ser Oswell was only trying to make him feel better.

Jon shed his uncomfortable clothing as soon as he reached his chambers, pulling on a pair of soft sleep pants and a thin night shirt. Even though he was rid of the heavy brocade, his chambers still seemed unbearably warm. He scowled as he noticed his window had been shut, and he stalked over to lift it just enough so that the air could be let in.

The servants knew that he kept his window open, but insisted on closing it anyway. At least they hadn’t built a fire. Some nights they did despite Jon’s protests, leaving him burning for hours even after he had doused the flames.

He knew they mocked his inability to take the heat. The first time he had heard them question whether he was even a dragon, he hadn’t been able to keep from crying. He had grown used to the callous remarks, never knowingly said in his presence. He had visited Flea Bottom enough times when he was exploring the city in disguise to know that he lived far better than most people and that he shouldn’t complain.

He was just getting ready to put out his candles and go to bed when a knock came at his door. He padded over, hoping it was just a servant but fearing it was someone more important. He opened it slowly, his throat going dry as he came face to face with his uncle.

“Un-uncle,” he stammered, cursing himself for how weak his voice sounded.

Viserys smiled at him. “Wait out here, Ser Jonothor, Ser Oswell,” he ordered. “I wish to speak with my nephew alone.”

Jon looked up at the Kingsguard and saw them exchange an uneasy glance. As much as he wished he could turn his uncle away, he could think of no excuse that would not seem rude. Instead, he stepped aside and let Viserys step inside.

He shut the door hesitantly. Never before had Ser Oswell willingly let him be alone with anyone. His trepidation seemed warranted as a tight hand wrapped around his upper arm and he was flung harshly to the floor. He let out a cry, more surprised than hurt, but a rough hand around his jaw cut off any form of protest from him.

Viserys crouched over him, a crazed look in his lilac eyes. “You are no dragon,” he said in a deceptively soft voice. “You are a dog. A pathetic, mangy mutt that has no place here or anywhere else. I could kill you right here, right now, and no one would even care.”

Jon’s eyes teared up at both the pain in his jaw and the words that cut right to his heart. Viserys had just confirmed what he had always feared was true. Nobody cared about him.

“But I won’t,” his uncle continued, releasing his hold on Jon and standing straight. “You aren’t worth the effort. Stay out of my way and perhaps you will live past your sixteenth nameday.”

Jon shook on the floor in fear and could do nothing more than watch as his uncle walked out the door, shutting it firmly behind him.

He gave a pitiful little sob once he was alone, curling into a ball and hating how helpless he felt. He hid his face in his arms when he heard his door open once more, flinching as a strong hand landed on his shoulder.

“My prince,” Ser Oswell’s voice called, making Jon feel even more pathetic in the presence of the strong knight. “Do you need a maester?”

Jon shook his head before looking up at the Kingsguard in betrayal. “Why didn’t you stop him?” He had cried out. Ser Oswell _had_ to have heard him. Yet he had done nothing.

The knight had the decency to look ashamed, but didn’t answer as he helped Jon up and into bed. Jon suddenly remembered what Prince Oberyn had said. Something about how the Kingsguard couldn’t hurt Viserys even if he was hurting Jon.

“You can’t protect me,” he said in realization, pushing away from the knight and climbing into bed on his own. He pulled the heavy blankets over him, for once in his life feeling cold. He turned his back to Ser Oswell. “No one can protect me.”

The Kingsguard didn’t answer, only blowing out the candles before silently leaving the room.

Jon turned his head to bury his face in his pillows, trying to muffle the painful sobs that he couldn’t keep from ripping out of him.

 

#

 

His lessons with Maester Lorezo resumed the next morning. Jon expected the Dornish maester to drill him twice as hard after missing a day, but the maester only made him work a bit on his penmanship before setting him to reading a history of the Kingsguard. He made himself read it even though the subject made the pain of Ser Oswell’s betrayal throb.

Maester Lorezo dismissed him for lunch, and Jon returned to his solar for his midday meal. Afterwards, he went to return to the maester’s study for more lessons. Ser Oswell, however, led him to the training yard instead.

“Maybe I can’t protect you,” Ser Oswell told him seriously, holding out a wooden training sword to him, handle first. “But I can teach you how to protect yourself.”

Jon took the sword with a lump in his throat, not knowing what to say.

The knight nodded in approval as he picked up a training sword of his own. “It’s about time you learned swordplay, anyway. I had assumed Lord Connington would have found you a more suitable teacher but… well, never mind.” He shook his head. “This will not be fun and games, my prince. These are serious lessons that you must take as seriously as your lessons with Maester Lorezo.”

Jon nodded eagerly. “I will,” he promised.

“Good. Now, let’s begin."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize that Ser Jonothor is often called "Ser Jon," but I'm going to refer to him as Jonothor because throwing in yet another Jon would be confusing.


	3. Age 10

The good thing about being the prince that no one really wanted, Jon had long since decided, was that people tended to pretend he wasn’t there. The eyes of nobles, guards, and servants all seemed to skip over him unless he did something to purposefully call their attention to him. There were the obvious exceptions to this rule, but he had gotten pretty good at avoiding his uncle and Lord Connington, and the Kingsguard never stopped or questioned him.

Of course, it was easy to avoid any unwanted eyes by using the secret passages ways of the Red Keep. He had gotten quite good at navigating them. He had had to once Viserys had moved into Maegor’s Holdfast. Despite what his uncle had said about Jon not being worth the effort it took to hurt him, he certainly liked to hurt him every chance he got.

Which wasn’t very often, Jon thought proudly as he turned a dark, cramped corner and entered a narrow passage he had never explored before. Viserys was very careful to hide his viciousness from the other nobles at court, and Jon suspected he wasn’t sure enough about the Kingsguard’s vows to lay a hand on him in front of Ser Oswell or Ser Jonothor. With Jon’s mornings and afternoons full of lessons and him barring his door tightly against any intrusion at night, there was little opportunity for Viserys to get him alone.

Jon frowned as the passage he was in turned and narrowed once more. There was no light at all filtering in from any cracks or drainage grates, and he hesitated before moving forward. Perhaps this passage would lead to the royal chambers, though he was less than hopeful. He had explored these tunnels enough to lose hope of ever finding one that would get him from his bedchambers in Maegor’s Holdfast to anywhere else in the keep. 

It didn’t really matter as long as Ser Oswell continued to escort him to and from his chambers and Viserys kept his hesitance to do anything in the knight’s presence, but Jon figured having an escape route couldn’t hurt.

He could see light coming from a small slit up ahead, and Jon hurried his steps to reach it quicker, the dark feeling ominous all of a sudden. He could hear voices coming from whatever room the passage led to, and he bit his lip, consciously keeping his breath quiet and his steps light so that he wasn’t heard.

“—seems to have forgotten he is a hostage,” a familiar voice was saying, the dangerous amusement in the tone identifying him even before Jon peeked out of the small slit and peeked out. 

It was the Small Council chamber, he realized immediately. He mostly just saw the council’s feet, as the slit was located in between the floor molding and the wall, but he recognized it all the same. He shrank back a bit, wanting to be sure that he was completely hidden by the darkness around him. Neither Lord Connington nor Viserys would be happy that he was listening in.

“He asked me to petition for my daughter to be legitimized so that they could be married,” Prince Oberyn continued, voice dripping with disdain. “As if my Nym is too lacking with the name she has to marry him, the son of a traitor.” 

“Lord Tully grows old and frail,” the high voice of Lord Varys informed, a sad tinge to his voice that even Jon could tell was false. “I fear that if Lord Edmure does not return to the Riverlands soon, his bannermen will rally to his Uncle Brynden or one of his sister’s sons to Lord Stark. Considering Ser Brynden is notoriously unwed, Riverrun passing to the Starks is not unlikely.”

“Leaving those traitors with two of the Seven Kingdoms,” Lord Tarly pointed out darkly.

“Lord Stark has been a loyal servant to the crown these past ten years,” Maester Pycelle reminded them. “As have Lord Tully and Lord Baratheon. Perhaps it is time they’re hostages were returned to them. As a gesture of good will.”

“I see no reason why Lord Tully and Lord Baratheon should not get their hostages back, especially if Prince Oberyn is willing to part with his daughter and wed her to Lord Edmure,” Lord Connington mused. “From what I hear from Lord Tyrell about Lord Renly and from what I know of Stannis Baratheon, I am sure that family reunion will be more punishment than reward.”

“And Lord Stark?” Lord Rosby inquired.

“No, the boy will not be given back,” Viserys hissed vehemently. 

Lord Connington hummed in agreement. “The Starks are already posed to inherit two kingdoms. We’d be fools to give them a royal heir. Besides, we need a means to check their power, especially if they manage to inherit Riverrun.”

“Prince Jon will not be an effective means to check Lord Stark’s sons in that event,” Pycelle stated. Jon started at the mention of his name. _He_ was a hostage? “They never met their aunt before she died and do not know the prince.”

“And the prince has lived in King’s Landing his entire life,” Varys added. “The Starks have likely given him up as a dragon by now.”

“My nephew is no dragon!” Viserys seethed. 

The Lord Hand once again stepped in to cover the prince’s outburst. “But it is too dangerous to give him up now. If the Starks rebel again, they’d have a much stronger candidate for the throne than Robert Baratheon if we gave them my nephew. He remains _here_ ,” he said with finality.

Jon had heard enough. He retraced his steps back to more familiar passageways as he considered what he had heard. He usually didn’t think too much about his family in the North. No one at court ever talked about his mother or the Starks, so it was easy to forget they existed. He knew his mother had been a Stark and that the Starks had led a rebellion when she ran away with his father to be married, but Maester Lorezo hadn’t gone into much detail into the failed rebellion. 

When he was younger, he used to fantasize about the Starks as much as he did about his Targaryen kin. He was a stupid little boy then, though. That was when he still believed that family always loved each other. When he still believed that family never hurt each other.

Back before he had met Viserys.

Now, though, he wondered if maybe the Starks would be different. Maybe they actually _did_ care about Jon. Maybe they didn’t want to hurt. Maybe they saw him as something other than a pretender prince. 

They had to, right? Why else would they care if he was being held hostage in King’s Landing? Maester Pycelle had said that they had been faithful to the crown since the rebellion. That had to be because they didn’t want him hurt.

Jon let the flicker of hope die inside him before it could become more. It didn’t matter. Even if the Starks did care about him, Lord Connington and Viserys would never let him leave. 

He ducked out of the hidden door in the Great Hall, sure that it would be empty with the Small Council convened. He would have been correct, too, if Ser Oswell hadn’t been leaning against one of the large pillars nearest the throne. He stood straight when he saw Jon appear.

Jon grimaced as he approached his guard. “How did you know I’d come out here?”

The knight gave him a flat look and raised an eyebrow. “You appear here more often than you realize. If you truly want to disappear, you should be less predictable.”

He flushed at that. The Great Hall was easiest to come and go from because it was usually empty unless Lord Connington was holding court or a feast was going on. People rarely milled about the room without a purpose.

Jon snuck a glance at the twisted and towering throne made up of sharp edges and jagged points. Perhaps the Iron Throne made everyone else as uncomfortable as it made Jon.

He turned his attention away from his ancestors’ seat of power and back to Ser Oswell. “I don’t want to disappear,” he muttered. It was just _easier_ to disappear.

Ser Oswell made a noncommittal sound at that, and Jon knew that was as far as that line of conversation was going to go. Despite the knight training him for the past two years, he had not grown more talkative. Jon turned and began making his way towards his chambers, knowing the Kingsguard would trail after him dutifully.

He frowned as he crossed the inner courtyard that led to Maegor’s Holdfast, just now realizing that the sun had long since set. “Why is the Small Council meeting so late?” he wondered, looking back at Ser Oswell.

“How do you know the Small Council is meeting?” he asked instead of answering, a sure sign he was hiding something.

Jon stopped and turned, narrowing his eyes. “Something happened.”

It couldn’t be anything too terrible, he reasoned to himself. Not if the council was discussing hostages from a rebellion that ended a decade ago, but he wasn’t sure why Ser Oswell didn’t want to tell him.

“Nothing you need worry about now, my prince,” the knight replied. “But it’s growing late and we should get you to your chambers.”

Jon wanted to argue, but he suddenly realized that, with as late as it is, the council would not take long to adjourn. Not wanting to run into Viserys or Lord Connington, he nodded and began walking once more, resolved to question Ser Oswell more once they reached the royal wing.

Unfortunately, though, Ser Oswell bowed to him as soon as they reached his chambers and excused himself quickly. “Apologies, my prince, but Ser Jonothor and I have some logistics to go over for our guard duties. I shall be here in the morning to excuse you to Maester Lorezo’s lessons.”

Jon frowned but nodded, barricading himself in his chambers while still puzzling over the mystery. He could have ordered Ser Oswell to tell him, of course, but he hated giving people orders. Viserys was the one always ordering people around, and Jon wanted to be nothing like Viserys.

He sighed as he readied himself for bed. If it were really important, he’d find out soon anyway. _Especially_ if it were as terrible as he was beginning to suspect. Lord Connington always made sure he heard the news that was bad.

Extinguishing the candles, he lay down and pulled a thin sheet over him, the cool night breeze making the room a comfortable temperature. He closed his eyes and let dreams of wolves overtake him.

 

#

 

Jon had wanted to question Ser Oswell the next morning, but something in his expression when he came to collect Jon for his lessons stopped him. He had never seen the knight’s face look so blank before. It only solidified his belief that something horrible had happened, but he wasn’t so sure he should be in a hurry to know.

Whatever it was, the bad news certainly hadn’t affected Maester Lorezo’s mood, as the Dornishman was practically chipper as he greeted Jon. Of course, the maester was typically in a good cheer, so it didn’t really say much. Still, it comforted Jon to know that whatever had happened, it couldn’t have been _too_ awful.

Of course, Lorezo’s cheerfulness clashed horribly with the topic of the morning, which was a continuation of the lesson from yesterday on the reign of Maegor the Cruel. Jon tried to focus on the lesson, but, not only did the dread pooling in his stomach distract him, he couldn’t stop thinking about his own parents as well.

“Maegor was the last Targaryen to take multiple wives until my father, right?” he blurted out suddenly, stopping the maester’s explanation of the Faith Militant’s origins. 

He flushed as Lorezo’s eyes focused in on him with more intensity than they ever had before. Jon had always said as little as possible during his lessons with the maester, speaking up only when he was confused about something, but _never_ asking for anything more than what he was given. Maester Lorezo, he knew, had been a close friend to Prince Oberyn ever since he had been brought to the Red Keep to tutor Jon. He had to admit that some of his fear of the Red Viper had transferred to the goodnatured maester.

Lorezo slowly nodded. “Yes, after the tyranny of King Maegor, no other Targaryen monarch wanted to be cast in his light,” he explained. “King Rhaegar obviously did not have the same concerns. Of course, in the centuries since King Maegor, many came under the belief that King Jaehaerys, who succeeded him and reconciled the Faith and the crown, actually made the taking of multiple wives illegal as part of the reconciliation.”

“So my parents’ marriage wasn’t legal?” Jon couldn’t help but ask, unsure how he felt at the idea. On the one hand, the thought that he was a bastard was uncomfortable, knowing that his name was the only thing that kept him as safe as he was. On the other, though, his name was also what his uncle found so threatening.

“Do not worry,” the maester assured him with an understanding smile. “The High Septon searched the Faith’s records and Lord Connington commissioned the Citadel to do the same, and no record of such a concession was ever found. The practice of taking multiple wives was perfectly legal for the crown. It had merely fallen out of fashion.”

Jon nodded, relief and disappointment warring within him. However, since he had already begun asking questions, he didn’t think it would hurt to press a bit more. “But that’s why my mother’s family rebelled, right? Because Rhaegar married my mother when he already had Queen Elia?”

“No,” Lorezo sighed. “That’s not why they rebelled. Well, not exactly. No one really knew they had wed until after the rebellion was over.” At Jon’s look of confusion, he shook his head sadly. “Your mother ran away with your father, but the Starks believed that King—well, _Prince_ Rhaegar, at the time—stole her against her will. Whatever communication your mother had left for her family mysteriously disappeared.”

“And that’s why they rebelled?”

“No. Shall I finish or would you like to keep guessing?” he asked in amusement.

“Sorry,” Jon muttered, chiding himself for being so bothersome. No one ever talked about his parents, though, and he was eager to know everything he could about them.

“Your Uncle Brandon Stark foolishly came to the Red Keep and demanded Rhaegar’s head. The prince wasn’t here, of course, because he was with your mother in Dorne, but King Aerys did not take kindly to such demands.”

_The Mad King_ , Jon thought, eyes widening as he realized what must have happened. “He killed my uncle?”

Lorezo nodded, eyes flashing in what Jon _hoped_ was still amusement at his interruption. “He called for your grandfather, Lord Rickard Stark, who he burned alive while Brandon strangled himself in an attempt to save his father.”

Jon gaped in horror at that. Shuddering, he turned away from the maester and stared at the floor. Though he could not picture his Stark relatives being killed, he could easily picture a man that looked like Viserys grinning cruelly at their screams as fire was reflected in his eyes.

“King Aerys then called for your Uncle Eddard’s head, who was being fostered with Lord Jon Arryn along side Robert Baratheon, who was your mother’s intended,” Lorezo continued in a gentler voice. “When Lord Arryn refused, _that_ was when the rebellion truly began.”

Jon was sorry that he had asked. He felt sick as he thought of the madness that provoked his Targaryen grandfather to call for the life of a man who had done no wrong, to burn his other grandfather alive, and to make a son watch as flames consumed his father. 

He had seen that same madness in Viserys. Was it in his other Targaryen kin as well? Was it in _him_?

His silent stretched on so long that Maester Lorezo cleared his throat, causing Jon to look up. The maester had a slight look of shame on his face before it smoothed quickly. “Now, shall we continue the lesson?”

Jon nodded, trying and failing to push thoughts of his family, both Targaryen and Stark, out of his mind. Thankfully, he didn’t have to try to concentrate for long before Ser Oswell came to escort him back to his chambers for his midday meal.

He ate quickly, focusing on his food instead of the thoughts in his head. He had almost forgotten that he was worried about whatever Ser Oswell knew until the knight led him to the godswood instead of the training yard.

Jon was no stranger to the godswood. It was an easy place to find refuge when he got tired of his chambers or the secret passages and he wanted to escape somewhere without people. Few people ever ventured into the godswood, and those that did didn’t linger long. Perhaps the solemn face craved into the great oak that served as a heart tree unnerved them. Jon never minded it, though. It had always felt comforting to him.

It brought him no comfort now, though, not with the sober expression on Ser Oswell’s face.

“Ser Gerold is dead,” the knight stated without preamble.

Jon blinked. Though the news was solemn, it was not nearly as devastating as he had imagined. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard had been old and hearing that death had come for him wasn’t that surprising. Still, he knew that losing a sworn brother must have hit Ser Oswell hard.

“I am sorry,” he said sympathetically, hoping it didn’t sound silly. What else did someone say to someone who was grieving?

The knight shook his head harshly. “Never mind that. The Lord Hand has already appointed another Lord Commander from the six of us who remain,” he said in a tight voice, anger lining his features. Jon had never seen Ser Oswell angry before, and he now understood why Viserys always thought twice before harming him in his presence.

“Who?” he asked, still not understanding Ser Oswell’s reaction.

“Prince Lewyn,” he answered through gritted teeth.

Jon shook his head. “I don’t understand.” 

Prince Lewyn had been grievously injured during the Battle of the Trident, but had managed to survive long enough for the tide of battle to turn and to get to the care of a maester. When the Kingsguard had been split between Dorne, King’s Landing, and Dragonstone, he had of course followed his niece and her children to Sunspear. Why would his appointment anger Ser Oswell?

The Kingsguard scowled. “Prince Lewyn believes that the Kingsguard’s efforts should be focused on guarding the king. He’s ordering Ser Jonothor and me to Dorne to protect King Aegon.”

Jon’s blood ran cold. Ser Oswell was leaving. The one person in King’s Landing who had least _wanted_ to protect him was leaving.

He took a deep breath and tried not to let the fear shake his voice as he asked, “When?”

The knight sighed, the anger leaving him all of a sudden. “Ser Barristan is escorting Princess Daenerys here. He’ll be here to protect all three of you, though I suspect his efforts will be concentrated on the princess. We shall leave as soon as they arrive.”

Jon nodded, understanding the veiled warning that Ser Barristan would not escort him about the keep as Ser Oswell did. He was relieved, though, that Ser Oswell wasn’t leaving immediately. “Who will train me now?”

“I will see if Ser Barristan can make the time,” he answered. “If not, I will make sure you have an able teacher.” He knelt down and looked him in the eye. 

“Jon,” he said seriously, startling him with the use of his name. No one ever called him _Jon_ , at least not without using his title. “Do not trust anyone here to keep you safe. Keep up with your training and stick to your secret passages as much as you can. And bar the door to your rooms whenever possible. And whatever you do, stay out of Prince Viserys’s path.” Jon nodded, he knew all of that already. “It won’t be long until your brother returns to King’s Landing. Things will get better then.”

Jon wasn’t sure if he believed that, but he kept silent and let the thought comfort Ser Oswell. He knew that, no matter how much better things got, he would still hate the Red Keep.


	4. Age 12

“Yield,” Jon gasped out as he felt the barest kiss of steel on his throat. Ser Barristan’s training blade came up and the old knight held out a hand to the prince. Jon’s bruises throbbed as he stood, but he carefully kept from vocalizing his pain. Most of his bruises didn’t come from his sparring sessions with Ser Barristan, and he knew the knight would just be guilty if he knew Viserys had managed to corner Jon without him knowing.

It wasn’t Ser Barristan’s fault, of course. The Kingsguard had been with Daenerys at the time, as usual. The only time he was ever really with Jon was when they were training. Besides, Viserys was cruel, but it wasn’t like he was always violent.

“You’re improving,” Barristan told him, giving him a grandfatherly smile. “You’ll be knocking me down soon enough.”

Jon ducked his head at the praise, wishing it were true but knowing it was just empty words. If he were really improving, he wouldn’t be so helpless when Viserys got him alone. The only thing Jon had improved at over the years was hiding and sneaking around.

“That’s enough for today,” the knight declared, handing his blunted blade to one of the master-of-arms’ attendants. “It would not do for you to work yourself too hard with the tourney tomorrow.”

The attendant held a hand out for Jon’s sword, and he handed it over reluctantly. Though he wasn’t the best swordsman in the world, he still felt stronger with a blade in his hand, even if it was barely sharp enough to cut through sand. “I don’t plan to enter,” he admitted softly, expecting to be rebuked.

He wasn’t disappointed, though Ser Barristan’s words were light and his tone held no censure. “It is the princess’s nameday. She will be disappointed if you don’t compete in her honor.”

Jon barely suppressed a snort of derision at that. Daenerys would only be _disappointed_ if Viserys needed a target for his displeasure and he wasn’t there to direct his attention from her. That’s the only time she ever seemed to want him around. The rest of the time, she just shot Jon cold stares, well, when she bothered to notice his presence at all. Jon didn’t think he could remember her saying more than one or two words to him at once.

Jon didn’t really care about that, though. It really wasn’t anymore than he had expected. He only wished that she didn’t insist that Ser Barristan focus his protection on her. He had never protested, of course, not when everyone at court seemed to believe that the remaining Kingsguard’s priority _should_ be protecting Daenerys. After all, it was expected that she would be the queen King Aegon chose to rule by his side.

He wasn’t sure _why_ that was the expectation, not when Targaryens had infamously wed brother and sister for centuries, but he guessed that Queen Elia didn’t want her children to continue that tradition. He hoped as much, at least. Because if Aegon didn’t marry Rhaenys, Jon prayed that _he_ wouldn’t be expected to. Marrying his half-sister meant either staying in King’s Landing or living in Dorne, neither of which seemed very appealing.

Jon flushed as he realized Barristan was still waiting for a response. “Daenerys would not be honored by the poor performance I would likely give. She will, however, be disappointed in you if you are not there to escort her from her tea with Lady Talla.”

Ser Barristan frowned at the obvious dismissal but gave a small bow. “Of course, my prince,” he said before leaving him, no doubt to freshen up a bit before heading to the Maidenvault, where Lord Tarly’s daughter, Lady Margaery Tyrell, and a slew of other ladies from the Reach had taken up residency under the watchful eye Lady Olenna Tyrell.

Jon avoided them as much as he avoided Viserys. While sneaking through the hidden passages, he had overheard Lady Olenna caution Lady Margaery and her ladies to pay special attention to him as sometimes kings died without leaving behind sons. He wanted absolutely nothing to do with whatever courtly games they meant to play.

Knowing he’d find no one willing to spar with him among the men in the large training yard of the Red Keep, he decided he’d work on his archery skills and meandered over to the archery ranges, grateful to find them practically deserted. He wasn’t surprised. Most of the knights would focus their efforts on the more exciting events of the joust and the melee. 

Jon crossed to the rack where an array of bows was kept next to a barrel of arrows. He picked up the bow he normally used. It wasn’t technically _his_ but he had used it enough that the others who used the training bows tended to stay away from it. He grabbed a handful of arrows and chose a target, sticking the arrows in the ground next to him for easy access.

He let himself relax as he got him to his stance, inhaling as he strung an arrow and pulled it back. He lined up his shot and exhaled as he released the arrow, smirking as it hit just left of center. He grabbed another arrow and notched it, moving to pull the string back once more before a voice caused him to start.

“I hope you’re not thinking of doing something so foolish as competing tomorrow.”

Jon whirled around, bringing the bow up instinctively and pointing it at the perceived threat. He froze as he took in Viserys’s smirking face, a pale eyebrow raised at the arrow pointed straight at his chest. Not just a perceived threat, then, but an actual one.

“You won’t do it,” he scoffed arrogantly. “You’d be executed as a murderer and cursed as a kinslayer.”

Jon held his stance for a moment more. Execution wouldn’t be the automatic sentence. Even Jaime Lannister, who had killed the king he had sworn to serve, had been allowed to take the black instead of losing his head. Of course, that may have been because most people were glad to be rid of the problem that was the Mad King.

He lowered the bow in defeat. With his luck, Viserys would survive and he would be executed for the attempt. Lord Connington would certainly spare no mercy for him. Maybe if he resembled his father as much as Viserys did, the Hand would not judge him so harshly.

“What can I do for you, uncle?” he asked in a forced polite voice.

The silver haired prince shrugged and stepped closer to Jon. “I saw you practicing and wanted to ensure you weren’t thinking of bringing shame to the family tomorrow.”

Jon made himself stand his ground with his uncle standing uncomfortably close. Why did everyone seem to care whether or not he competed in the stupid tourney tomorrow anyway? First Ser Barristan, and now Viserys. He wasn’t fool enough to believe he had a shot at winning the thrice-damned thing. 

A part of him wanted to rebel against his uncle. Wanted to tell him that he _was_ entering the tourney whether he wanted him to or not. He knew that was a bad idea though. For one, it would make Viserys angry, but, even more important, it would mean he would _have_ to compete to show his uncle that he wouldn’t be cowed. Why would he want a chance to give the city another reason to mock him?

“You don’t have to worry,” Jon told him, giving him a wry smile. “I have no intention of competing tomorrow. Is that all, uncle?” he asked, unable to keep the defiance out of his voice.

“No,” Viserys snapped, rage flashing across his face. He went to step even closer to Jon, no doubt to strike him, but he composed himself, as if remembering where he was.

And likely remembering that Jon was still armed, Jon realized, biting back a smirk as he shifted his grip on the arrow so that it was no longer notched in the string of his bow. Maybe he couldn’t fight Viserys off when he got violent, but he fought back often enough to give his uncle pause when he had a weapon in hand.

Viserys took a step back and gave Jon a haughty look. “I don’t like you monopolizing Barristan’s time. He has far greater duties than playing with you.”

Jon bristled. “Ser Barristan’s duties are to me as much as they are to you or Daenerys,” he pointed out, not caring that putting himself on equal footing as his aunt and uncle would surely anger him more than anything he could say.

This time, Viserys could not hold back his fury. His arm lashed out, a slap aimed for Jon’s face. Instinctively, Jon brought his hand up to block the blow, forgetting his hand was not empty.

Viserys shrieked in agony and rage, cradling his arm to his chest and staring at the arrow piercing his hand with crazed eyes. His purple eyes blazed up at Jon. “I will kill you for this, _dog_ ,” he growled.

Jon’s shock at the sight slowly gave way to horror and fear. The bow dropped from his other hand, and he took a couple of shaky steps backwards. He heard footsteps rushing towards the archery range, no doubt called by Viserys’s cry. 

He had to leave. _Now_.

He turned and ran as fast as he could, knowing that if he was caught, he’d be dead. He darted into the armory and through the hidden door behind a rack of shields, shuddering as he shut it behind him but not stopping to see if anyone had seen where he went.

He ran through the hidden passages blindly, making random turns in order to confuse anyone who might be able to follow him. He finally collapsed against a cold stone wall, the dim light filtering in from above him telling him he had ended up in one of the passages along the outer walls of the keep.

He wondered how long he could survive in the secret paths of the Red Keep. No one could find him here, he was sure, but he couldn’t stay here forever. He would have to leave to get food at least. There wasn’t a passage that led to the larder, which Jon had always thought was an oversight by the keep’s architects. If he were careful he’d be able to use the passage to that opened near the great ovens in the kitchens, but that would be risky. There was always at least one servant in the kitchens at any given time.

The servants would give him away if they saw him. They didn’t like him.

Jon gave a quiet sob as his shoulders shook with his tears. He had always told himself that it didn’t matter that no one liked him. And it hadn’t. Not before. Not when no one but Viserys would ever be brave enough to hurt him.

But he had hurt Viserys, and now his life was forfeit.

It wasn’t _fair_ , he thought mutinously, anger bleeding through his fear. He hadn’t _meant_ to. He just didn’t want Viserys to hit him. How was it that Viserys could get away with hurting Jon but he had to die because he had hurt Viserys?

Of course, Viserys had never put an arrow through his hand…

Maybe he wouldn't be executed. Maybe he’d just be exiled or something. He could handle that. That wouldn’t even be a punishment, really.

But no, Lord Connington was sure to know how much Jon hated King’s Landing. He wouldn’t send him away, unless he were going somewhere he was sure to be killed, maybe to be hunted on the Dothraki Sea or slaughtered in the Fighting Pits of Meereen.

Jon considered just leaving, running far away from the Red Keep and King’s Landing and all the people who scorned him. He could go North. Maybe, just _maybe_ , his mother’s family would welcome him. Or at least let him hide there as a stable boy or something.

He’d never get out of the Crownlands, though, he realized, letting his forehead fall against the stone wall with a soft _thunk_. Even if he did, he’d never make it all the way to the North. He didn’t have any coin or weapons on him, and he wasn’t stupid enough to not know how a skinny twelve year old would fare alone on the King’s Road. Maybe he was craven not to attempt it, but he didn’t think dying trying to run away was any braver than staying to die here.

He would just stay hidden as long as possible, Jon decided, feeling drained all of a sudden. He wiped at the tears making his face wet and sticky, scrubbing his eyes to alleviate the gritty feeling.

He shivered, curling tighter against the wall and feeling the cold more than usual. He was grateful that he had stopped in one of the outer passages, at least. They were warmer, though not by much. Wishing he had more than the light shirt he had been training in, he wrapped his arms around him and let his exhaustion overtake him.

 

#

 

Jon awoke to an odd swaying sensation. He furrowed his brow and cracked open his eyes, but it was too dark to see much. He pressed his eyes shut once more, trying to figure out who was carrying him and deciding that feigning sleep would put off the inevitable a bit longer.

Whoever held him was wearing a soft, smooth fabric that covered their chest and their arms. A man, but not a particularly muscular one. This man was soft, and it took him an obvious effort to carry Jon. He felt slightly bad about that because he was perfectly capable of walking. Jon didn’t feel bad enough, though, to let him know that he was awake. The longer he was asleep, the longer he stayed alive.

Jon heard light footsteps coming from the other direction and the man carrying him paused. “Inform Lord Connington that Prince Jon has been found and that I am taking him to his chambers.”

Lord Varys. He should have known. Of course the Spider knew how to navigate the secret passages of the Red Keep. Jon had been a fool to think he was safe.

They were moving once more, and the knot of worry tightening in his stomach was making Jon nauseated. He tried to tell himself that they wouldn’t be taking him to his chambers if he was just going to be executed, but it brought him little comfort. Not when he didn’t know what the protocol would be for a royal execution.

He barely noticed they had reached his chambers before he was being lowered gently onto his bed.

“You can stop playing at sleep now, my prince,” Varys said, voice giving away nothing. “You are within the safety of your own chambers.”

Realizing his ruse was blown, Jon opened his eyes, blinking up at the Master of Whispers. “Safe for now,” he retorted bitterly, knowing any illusion of safety would be gone once Lord Connington arrive.

He heard the outer door of his chambers open and tensed as he heard footsteps in his solar, expecting the Lord Hand to enter his bedchamber a moment later. He was surprised, then, when Daenerys appeared in the doorway, somehow looming large despite her small figure.

“Princess,” Lord Varys greeted, as if he had expected her appearance. 

Maybe he had, but Jon couldn’t guess why she was here. She _could_ have been angry that he had hurt Viserys, but he doubted that. Not when she seemed to like Viserys as little as Jon did.

“Leave us,” she demanded, shooting Varys an imperious look as she entered the room.

He gave a slight bow. “Lord Connington will be along shortly,” he informed her before leaving her alone with Jon.

A heavy silence descended on the room. Jon didn’t dare break it, not without knowing why Daenerys had come. He regarded her warily as she crossed the room to settle on the side of his bed.

“Viserys has demanded your head,” she announced casually, as if the execution of a family member at another family member’s request was nothing out of the ordinary.

“I figured he might,” Jon replied in resignation, wishing he knew what game she was playing. “Do I even get a trial?”

She rolled her eyes before finally looking at him. “Don’t be absurd,” she scoffed. “Even Lord Connington isn’t so blinded by his regard for my brother to think that Viserys’s injury was anything but self-inflicted. Viserys may get away with a lot, but the Hand and his council are not fool enough to sanction any harm towards you. You _are_ the heir to the throne, after all.”

Jon blinked in shock, both at the assurance and at the fact that her words were the most that she had ever said to him. “What?” he asked, wincing at how awkward and uncultured he sounded in response to her eloquence.

“They can look the other way when you are mistreated, but they cannot mistreat you themselves,” she summarized, amusement sparkling in her eyes.

“How do you know?” he asked, wondering at her confidence.

The amusement dimmed in her eyes, and she turned away to look at her lap. “Experience,” she answered sadly, glancing back at him with a rueful smile. “I’m afraid this is partially my fault. I chose to keep my distance from you and hope that Viserys would target you more than me. And when that worked, I kept Ser Barristan to myself even knowing you needed the protection more. I was selfish.”

Jon didn’t know what to say to that. Daenerys was right. She _had_ been selfish, but Jon couldn’t really fault her for it. Why should she put his wellbeing over her own? What was he to her?

Lord Connington came striding in before he could say anything. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t disappear like that again, my prince,” he stated without preamble, scowling down at Jon. “Particularly the day before a major event like the princess’s tourney. The household was upheaved enough without having to search for you.”

“Sorry if my fear for my life was inconvenient,” Jon shot back without thinking before freezing in trepidation, sure that he had only made things worse for himself.

The Hand just gave him a disgusted look. “Believe me, my prince, if I could let you be killed, I would have done so years ago.”

“Lord Connington, that is my _nephew_ to whom you speak, and the king’s _brother_ ,” Daenerys reminded him sharply, raising an eyebrow at him as she gave him a look of regal disdain.

Connington’s eyes narrowed, looking between Jon and the princess in distaste. “My apologies, my princess, my prince,” he said through gritted teeth. “I am very glad to see the prince has been found. I shall bid you both a good night.”

Jon watched in amazement as the Hand swept out of the room. He turned to Daenerys, who gave him an understanding smile as she stood.

“Never let them forget that they are beneath you,” she told him. “You are a dragon, and they are all sheep. I shall leave Ser Barristan at your door tonight. He will stick by your side in the next few days to protect you from Viserys. I would suggest staying out of his way if possible.”

“I always do,” he mumbled as she left.

Jon could understand her position, but she was wrong about him. He was no dragon. He didn’t _want_ to be a dragon. Not if being a dragon meant always having an agenda and having to protect yourself from your own family.


	5. Age 13, Part 1

Jon was once again dressed in uncomfortable and stiff formal wear waiting to receive more of his royal relatives. This time, there was no excitement as there had been before Viserys had arrived, and no sorrow as Daenerys arrived, heralding the departure of Ser Oswell. This time, there was only fear. 

Bone-deep, dreadful fear.

Because this time, it wasn’t a prince or a princess with no actual authority over Jon, though they both had plenty of _influence_ to make his life miserable if they wanted. 

No, this time, it was the _king_ that was set to arrive.

The fact that Jon knew that this day was coming did not make it easier to bear. In truth, Jon and nearly everyone at court had thought the king would have come years ago to learn the ways of court, not wait until he had nearly reached his age of majority. It was strange that the delay had only increased Jon’s anxieties.

He could see the ship slowing making its way into the bay, i’s sails pitch black and emblazoned with three-headed red dragon of House Targaryen. The ship carrying his brother and sister to the capital, along with their mother, the Dowager Queen Elia.

He wanted to be hopeful about Aegon and Rhaenys, wanted to believe that they would like him and treat him as an actual brother, but he had long given up on the fantasy of a loving family. 

Jon determinedly ignored both the nobles and smallfolk surrounding him, but couldn’t help but glance out of the corner of his eyes at Viserys and Daenerys. His uncle looked less than thrilled as the ship grew closer, no doubt realizing that his days of getting his way at court were over. No matter what Aegon was like, if he had been raised with people like Prince Oberyn, Jon doubted he was meek and malleable.

Daenerys, in contrast, was radiant. Jon was sure that, in her mind, she wasn’t just greeting her king and nephew, but also her future husband. 

Jon didn’t know what he thought about that.

Ever since that night she had spoken to him after the incident with the arrow, Jon began to pay her more attention. Once he did, he didn’t particularly like what he saw. While his aunt wasn’t malicious like her brother, she was without a doubt ruthless and arrogant. Though she hid it well behind a courteous mask, her violet eyes surveyed those around her with the haughty assurance that they were well and truly beneath her, and if anyone stood in her way of getting something she wanted, she removed them through the quickest means necessary.

Despite her words of assurance to Jon that he, too, was a dragon and above the rest, he wasn’t sure what she would do if he ever stood between her and what she wanted. Deciding it was better not to risk it, he had steered clear of her as much as he had before that night.

He wished Ser Oswell was standing with him instead of on the approaching ship. He had been a sturdy, reassuring presence when both Viserys and Daenerys had arrived in the capital. Watching the king’s ship approach now standing slightly apart from the other nobles and smallfolk congregated around the docks, he felt very alone.

It was a relief when the ship finally docked and its passengers began departing. Jon tried to shrink back into the crowd of nobles in trepidation. He couldn’t dunk behind them, but he could make himself stand out a little less.

At least Lord Connington had ensured that Viserys, Daenerys and himself were front and center while Jon stood furtherest from where the other royals would disembark. Jon had never thought he would be grateful for one of the Hand’s slights.

A Dornishman Jon did not know was the first to embark, but given his white cloak and the resemblance he bore to Prince Oberyn, it was easy to conclude that it Prince Lewyn, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. He walked down the gangway with a sense of alertness, scanning the docks and sizing up the crowd for threats. Seemingly satisfied, he turned his head and nodded to someone unseen on the ship.

Jon’s eyes shot towards the deck of the ship once more, holding his breath as he awaited his first sight of his brother and sister. When they appeared, Jon wasn’t the only one who could not conceal his gasp of shock.

A pale boy with silver hair was making his way down the gangway, leaning on the arm of a Dornish beauty that towered over him. King Aegon seemed the very opposite of the maid on his arm. Where she had an olive complexion that glowed with health, he seemed gaunt with a dull and waxy look to his skin.

Jon gaped in shock at the sight of the boy who he was sure was his brother. Though taller than Jon, Aegon was thin, and though Prince Oberyn was also lean, Aegon lacked the muscles and definition that bespoke of his uncle’s deadly prowess.

So distracted was Jon by his brother’s appearance, it took him longer than it should have to realize the woman supporting him was his, and Jon’s, sister, Princess Rhaenys.

His eyes were trained on the king as he stepped off the gangway, barely noticing as Prince Oberyn escorted a frail looking woman off the ship. Suddenly, the fact that the king had waited so long to attend court in King’s Landing made sense.

Viserys and Daenerys stepped forward to greet the king, both sweeping to their knees and prompting everyone gathered to do the same. Jon peeked up from beneath his curls, focusing now on his aunt and uncle. Though Daenerys seemed a bit disappointed, Viserys’s gleeful look filled Jon’s stomach with dread.

“Rise,” Aegon intoned in a voice that sounded much stronger than he looked. They all rose as one as the king’s eyes passed over Viserys and Daenerys and surveyed the crowd. “Where is my brother?”

Jon gulped before moving forward. “Here, your grace,” he said, keeping his head high as he approached the king. He was a second away from kneeling once more, but Aegon stepped away from Rhaenys and met Jon with open arms.

“Brother!” he exclaimed in a joyful tone as he embraced him lightly. He kept his hands on Jon’s shoulders as he pulled away. “My sister and I have longed to meet you for many years now.”

Jon smiled hesitantly, not exactly trusting the king’s words. Not when his indigo eyes had the calculating glint that he had often seen in Prince Oberyn’s. “I am also glad to finally meet my siblings, your grace,” he replied.

“Jon,” Rhaenys greeted him, beaming at him and giving him a kiss to each cheek. “I am very happy to meet you, little brother.”

He gave her a hesitant smile back. His sister was apparently like himself in that she had inherited all of her mother family’s looks and none of the Targaryen’s. He glanced back at where the Dowager Queen Elia was standing on her brother’s arm. It seemed that Rhaenys received all of her looks, while Aegon got her frail disposition. 

Jon wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say to these strangers who were his siblings. He wasn’t entirely sure they even cared what he said. There words and smiles welcomed him, but their mannerisms screamed false to him. Why were they being nice? What did they want from him?

Did he dare hope that they _actually_ cared for him?

 

#

 

Jon was grateful that the confusing encounter with his brother and sister did not last long before the king’s retinue retired to the Red Keep. He knew he’d have to endure another grueling feast that night, and he was sure it would be worse than the ones for Viserys and Daenerys. It would be bigger for one, and likely longer, and unlike before, he was of an age where he would be expected to stay past the actual meal.

He stripped out of his formal wear and snuck to the godswood, knowing it would be the one place in the keep guaranteed to be deserted. He would have rather gone to the training yard, but he was sure showing up at the feast sweaty would not make a great impression on his siblings. And the valet that had been assigned to his chambers had taken to punishing him for any additional work by ordering a fire lit in his chambers at night and making the temperature unbearable, so ordering another bath be drawn after one was just drawn for him last night was out.

He was sure either Lord Connington or Viserys was behind the valet’s actions, but he would give neither of them the satisfaction of hearing him complain.

Jon reached the oak hearttree and sunk to his knees in front of the carved face. He kept his eyes down, studying the red dragon’s breath growing beneath the tree instead of looking at the blank eyes cut into the great oak’s bark. He didn’t know if the old gods could see out of those eyes, not when they weren’t carved into a weirwood, but if they could, he wasn’t sure he was worthy to look into them.

Still, the godswood was a comfort to him, steady and calm. Despite feeling out of place everywhere else in King’s Landing, here, he almost felt like he was home. He tried to soak in that feeling, needing it to fortify him for the feast ahead of him.

He didn’t know how long he had been there before a voice startled him from behind.

“My prince.”

Jon stood and turned quickly, settling into a defensive stance instinctively. He relaxed instantly, though, as he took in the knight before him as a genuine smile spread over his face. “Ser Oswell.”

He hadn’t seen the knight depart from the ship with the rest of the king’s party, mostly because the king and his sister had been intent on keeping his attention as they made their way to the Red Keep. Though he knew that his former protector was surely back in the capital once more, seeing him with his own eyes lifted his spirits a bit.

“You’ve grown into a fine young man,” the knight told him, giving him a proud once over. “And Ser Barristan tells me that you’re becoming quite the swordsman.”

Jon looked down sheepishly and shrugged. “If I were any good at fighting, Viserys wouldn’t leave so many bruises on me,” he admitted, knowing Ser Oswell would keep his confidences. 

“He will _not_ hurt you again,” the knight stated, the steel in his voice causing Jon to look up in surprise. “His grace has appointed me as your guard once more, and I intend to take it very seriously.”

The constant knot of anxiety in his stomach loosened a bit at that. No one but the king himself would dare hurt him with Ser Oswell standing guard. And though he wasn’t sure his brother wouldn’t _want_ to hurt him, he was sure that any blows from the frail king wouldn’t hurt nearly as much Viserys’s.

Jon bit his lip before hesitantly asking, “What’s he like? The king? Is he…” he searched for the right word, “…good?”

Oswell’s brow furrowed. “He does not wish you harm,” he answered carefully. “His grace wishes to reform King’s Landing and reunite the Seven Kingdoms under a stronger Targaryen regime.”

“Reunite?” he repeated, puzzled. “The rebellion was over a decade ago. Why do the kingdoms need to be reunited?”

The knight sighed. “I’m sure Lord Connington has kept you as ignorant of the political reality of the realm as possible, but no one is particularly happy with how the Hand has been governing. The former rebel kingdoms are more resentful of the crown than ever, and the remaining kingdoms have begun to chafe under Connington’s regency. And it has escaped no one’s notice that the Hand is infatuated with Prince Viserys, who most view as the Mad King come again.”

Jon felt a strong sense of satisfaction to know that Connington and Viserys were not viewed well by the rest of the realm, even if they had run King’s Landing unchallenged for the past five years. The satisfaction was fleeting, though, as he realized his own shaky ground.

“What are the king’s plans for me?” he asked in trepidation. Surely his presence would be seen as a threat to Aegon’s reign, especially now that the king’s frailty had been made known.

“I don’t know,” Ser Oswell answered regretfully. “But King’s Landing will be a different place going forward, and I will not allow harm to come to you if I can help it.”

It wasn’t the most reassuring thing the Kingsguard could have said, but Jon appreciated the honesty. Ser Oswell had always been the only one he could trust to tell him the truth, and he was glad to know that that hadn’t changed.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely, a wave of affection for the knight rushing through him.

Oswell nodded before looking up at the sky. “The sun is getting low. You should go get ready for the feast.”

Jon looked up as well, startled that the hour had grown so late. He hadn’t realized he had been lost in his thoughts for so long before Ser Oswell arrived. He tried to bid the Kingsguard a good evening, but received a raised eyebrow in response.

“I am your guard once more, my prince,” he told him with an amused smile. “I go where you go. When you’re not disappearing into the secret passages,” he added wryly as an afterthought.

Jon colored at that, wondering if Ser Oswell knew about how those secret passages allowed him to escape from Viserys’s rage last year, but didn’t dare ask. He couldn’t bear to see the disappointment on the knight’s face once he realized that Jon had lashed out at his uncle and then hid like a coward.

He walked to royal wing in Maegor’s Holdfast with a bit of apprehension, very aware that there were two more royals residing there. Three, if the dowager queen had taken up residence there as well. He was hoping that his relatives would all be too busy getting ready for the feast to run into him in the corridors. 

He was wrong.

But what he never would have expected would to see one of them sneaking out of _his_ chambers.

Rhaenys stopped abruptly when she turned from closing the door and say him standing in front of him. She straightened from her slightly slumped posture and gave him a charming smile that Jon wasn’t sure if he could trust. She stepped closer to him, apparently at ease with being caught snooping in his chambers, and Jon’s only coherent thought through his confusion was that she was nearly a head taller than he was.

“Jon!” she greeted, all smiles and cheer. “I had wondered where you had gotten to. I brought you a gift that I had hoped you would wear to the feast tonight. I left it on your bed.” She hesitated and her face turned uncertain. “I hope I have not overstepped some bound. I would have done the same with Egg and just… I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Jon quickly assured her, though he wasn’t quite sure it was. Rhaenys certainly _seemed_ sincere, but Jon just didn’t know if he could trust her. “Thank you,” he added. “I’m sure whatever gift you left is lovely.”

She beamed at him. “I thought it would be best if we presented a united front at the feast. Now, if you will excuse me, I must dress myself.”

Jon stared after her as she disappeared down the corridor and into her own chambers before he exchanged a look with Ser Oswell. “What did she mean?”

The knight nodded towards the door. “Only one way to find out. I shall remain out here until you are ready to go to the feast.”

Jon shot a glance towards his family’s doors, where Sers Jonothor and Barristan were stationed, along with a pale-haired knight that Jon was sure was the famed Ser Arthur Dayne. It seemed silly for Oswell to wait around for him with so many Kingsguards already around.

“You don’t have to,” he mumbled, trying to keep his voice to low for the other knights to hear. “I’ll be fine on my own.”

“Perhaps,” Ser Oswell mused. “But I’ll stay regardless.”

Jon gave him a grateful smile and went into his chambers, curiosity causing him to head straight to his bedchamber to see what Rhaenys had left.

He had suspected that the gift was clothing when Rhaenys had wanted him to wear it this evening, but he wasn’t expecting what was waiting for him.

The clothes were in the Targaryen colors. The pants were a soft material in rich crimson. The long tunic was black velvet embroidered with red thread, the pattern mimicking flames, with tiny rubies accenting the fire near the cuffs of the sleeves and the hemlines at the neck and the bottom. Rhaenys had even included a new belt and black leather boots to complete the look.

Jon stared at the clothing, trying to figure out what it meant. He had never been dressed in Targaryen colors before. Whenever he had to wear formal clothing, Lord Connington had had him wear white and grey. Stark colors.

He had never really minded. When he was younger, he hadn’t realized it was a slight, and by the time Viserys came to King’s Landing, he hadn’t wanted to wear any colors that his uncle had anyway.

Perhaps this was Rhaenys’s way treating him like family, Jon decided, tentatively hopeful. Maybe she and Aegon _were_ different than Daenerys and Viserys.

It was probably foolish for him to think, but just maybe…

Jon had just finished dressed and pulling on his boots when there was a knock on his door. Frowning, he walked out of his bedchamber and crossed his solar to open it, surprised to see his sister standing there, flanked by Sers Oswell and Jonothor.

She was dressed in a black velvet gown, the bodice embroidered with a similar flame pattern as his tunic, and a brilliant ruby on a heavy gold chain resting in the hollow of her throat.

Jon was certain that the both of them would be sweltering in the velvet by the end of the night, but he had worn the tunic anyway for fear of offending.

“I was hoping my youngest brother would escort me to the feast,” Rhaenys said, giving him a coquettish smile that had him worrying that his siblings might _not_ be opposed to the Targaryen practice of marrying sibling as he thought.

“I would be honored,” he managed to stammer out, “but I had assumed his grace would escort you.”

“Oh, don’t call him that!” she said with a wave of her hand. “He’s our brother! It is our right by blood to call him Aegon, Egg, or any insulting name that he deserves in any given moment,” she laughed, taking his arm as he stepped out into the corridor. “But to answer your question, he will be escorting our lady mother tonight.”

Daenerys would be disappointed, Jon thought somewhat vindictively. Surely if Aegon intended to take her as his queen, then she would be on his arm for the feast. 

Aegon was already in the Great Hall when they arrived, seated in the center of the high table with his mother on his left. Jon noted that the two chairs on his right were empty, with Daenerys and Viserys seated next to the empty seats.

The king was dressed similarly to he and Rhaenys, though his tunic was slightly shorter than Jon’s and was without the embroidery. Instead, a red sash of crimson silk cut across his chest. On his head rested a crown of bright gold, a sunburst in the center with a large ruby set in its middle.

Jon was unsurprised that the king, raised in Dorne with his mother’s family, would incorporate the Martell’s sigil into his crown.

Though he was in theory escorting his sister, it was Rhaenys who led _him_ to the high table and into the seat next to Aegon, taking the seat next to Viserys for herself.

“Brother,” Aegon greeted him with a smile that seemed to strain his muscles. Not for the first time since that morning did Jon wonder about the king’s health, selfishly afraid of what it would mean for his own future. 

Though he hadn’t set down any concrete plan for the future beyond vague hopes and dreams, he knew that he didn’t want for it to include King’s Landing.

“Your grace,” he replied respectfully.

“It’s Aegon to my siblings,” the king said affably. “Or Egg, but that might be asking too much of you too soon.”

“I did tell him that, brother,” Rhaenys injected, eyes sparkling with amusement as she held out her goblet for a servant to fill. “Our little brother is shy, it seems.”

Jon blushed while Aegon chuckled and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I am afraid you may need to get over that, Jon. Many complain that the Dornish have no sense of boundary or propriety. While not necessarily true, we do tend to be a bit more open than the rest of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“I shall try… Aegon,” he said, far from comfortable with the familiarity his siblings were showing, but tried to relax and enjoy it. Their lively chatter certainly made the feast more pleasant as a whole, even if he were second-guessing their intentions the entire time.


	6. Age 13, Part 2

Despite the excitement surrounding the arrival of the king and his party, Jon was still expected to attend lessons with Maester Lorezo, who set him to work on sums that morning. The king’s arrival had apparently put a strain on Grand Maester Pycelle’s workload, and Lorezo was left to pick up the slack.

“Finish these,” the maester told him, placing a small stack of paper in front of Jon, “and you may leave early.”

Jon nodded, picking up his quill and scanning the first page. He smiled as he dipped the quill in his inkwell. Sums might not be his favorite subject, but he could manage them well enough. And Maester Lorezo must have wanted him to get through these papers quickly because all of the problems were particularly easy. It was barely mid-morning when he put his quill down with a grin, having finished his last sum.

Maester Lorezo looked up at the sound and nodded, taking the sheets from him. “I’ll look over these later and determine if we need to revisit your previous lessons.” 

Jon was confident they wouldn’t and bid good day to the maester before rushing out. Ser Oswell was not waiting for him, of course. The knight had expected him to be in lessons until midday and had deemed the Rookery Tower where Maester Lorezo resided safe enough. Well, after Jon had _convinced_ him it was safe enough, that is.

He had forgotten how worrisome it was, having a full-time guard. When he was younger, he never considered how boring and inconvenient it might be for Ser Oswell to be constantly waiting around for him and watching over him, but now, it was all he could think of whenever he knew Ser Oswell was standing guard outside whatever room he was in.

Surely the knight had better things to do?

He didn’t go back to his chambers. Maegor’s Holdfast was too crowded these days for him to venture into it alone. Instead, he made his way to the training yard. Ser Oswell surely still knew him well enough to know that he was either training or wandering the secret passages of the keep. He would look for him here first.

There were a few knights and squires training in the yard, some Jon recognized, some he didn’t, but he didn’t feel brave enough to approach any of them. Instead, he grabbed a blunted tourney sword and began going through the forms that Ser Barristan had drilled into him. While Ser Oswell may have begun his training, it was Barristan that had taught him to discipline his movements and make all of his efforts count.

He finished one sequence and was about to go into another when a voice near him startled him into lowering his sword.

“You have excellent form, my prince.”

Jon looked at the boy uncertainly. He looked to be of an age with Jon, but he had never seen him before. He had brown curls and eyes, and the only clue to his identity was the golden rose pendant pinned to his collar. Jon assumed he was somehow attached to Lady Olenna and Lady Margaery’s retinue, but Jon couldn’t understand why he had never seen him before.

“Thank you,” he said, once he realized the boy was waiting for him to speak. “I’m afraid I cannot place your name, ser,” he added, belatedly remembering his courtesies.

“No ser. Not yet,” the boy replied with a teasing grin before offering a slight bow. “I’m new to the capital, my prince, so you wouldn’t know me. I’m Loras Tyrell. I have been the squire for my uncle, Ser Garth Hightower, for the past three years.”

Ser Garth had been handpicked by Ser Gerold before his death to replace him on the Kingsguard. That explained why Jon had never seen Loras Tyrell before. He would have been in Dorne.

“I know your sister,” Jon blurted out, knowing he had to acknowledge Loras’s introduction in some way but not really knowing how. Gods, but he was terrible at courtly manners. “You look alike.” He nearly kicked himself at that. What boy wanted to be compared in looks to his sister?

Loras did not appear to be offended though. “I shall take that as a compliment as I am sure there is no maid in the land quite so lovely as my sister, meaning no disrespect to your royal sister or aunt, of course.”

Jon blinked at that. It would have never occurred to him to take Loras’s words as a slight to Rhaenys or Daenerys.Thankfully, he was spared from responding by the other squire.

“Would you care to spar, my prince?” he asked eagerly. “I normally spar with Quentyn, who squires for Prince Lewyn, but he stayed behind at Sunspear.”

A genuine smile broke out on Jon’s face as he nodded. Loras’s face lit up in a grin as he tossed aside the splendid sword strapped to his waist and grabbed a tourney sword as well. Jon felt shame as he realized the other boy carried a _real_ sword and likely was used to sparring with live steel.

Ser Barristan had never suggested switching to live steel during their sparring, and Jon was sure it was because there was something deficient in his swordplay. Perhaps going against another squire would help him better gage how far behind he actually was.

He fell into his stance opposite of Loras and waited for the other boy to make the first move. He didn’t have to wait long, as Loras was apparently an eager swordsman. Jon saw the first lunge coming in from the left before Loras’s arm even more, and was able to side-step it easily, bringing his own sword around in an aim for the other’s side.

Loras spun away and smirked at him, a delighted and determined glint in his eyes. The next thrust from him was a feint that nearly fooled Jon, but he managed to get his blade up in time to parry the slice coming from the other direction. 

Their blunt blades flashed in the sunlight as they continued, both breathing hard when they broke apart once more and began circling each other, calculating the other’s defenses and determining the best way to strike.

Jon’s blood was pumping in exhilaration as he analyzed Loras’s movements. This was the longest sparring match he had ever had, and he actually felt confident that he had a shot at winning.

Considering his only other sparring partners had been knights of the Kingsguard, he had never really had a shot at winning before.

Loras had apparently lost patience and lunged forward once more. Seeing his opening, Jon spun, bringing his sword around in a smooth arc and hitting Loras’s exposed side and causing him to falter. Pressing his advantage, Jon batted his opponent’s sword out of the way and shoved him down before bringing his own sword to Loras’s neck.

“I yield,” the fallen squire said, grinning up at Jon despite being in the dirt. Jon removed his sword and helped Loras up. “You are very skilled, my prince.”

“Thank you,” Jon replied, feeling something akin to pride welling within his chest. He knew Loras’s words weren’t empty praise. Not when he knew that the other boy had put his all into the match. “You are as well, my lord.”

“Loras, please, my prince,” he replied with a laugh. “I have two older brothers and know that I will never be lord of anything.”

Jon couldn’t help the smile that stretched across his face. No one had ever invited him to call them by their given name. Except for his brother, but Jon was still uncertain as to what Aegon’s plans were. “Loras, then. You may call me Jon, if you would like.”

Loras grinned at him, and Jon got the impression that the other boy wore smiles like most people wore clothes. Still, there did not appear to be anything false to the ones he had given Jon.

“I am honored, Jon.”

“I believe we are all honored to have such a strong and capable heir to the throne,” a wizened voice interrupted them, causing Jon to start and realize that they had drawn the attention of the entire training yard. Including a group of ladies who had happened to be walking by.

Considering the Queen of Thorns and her granddaughter were among their numbers, though, Jon wasn’t so sure it was all happenstance.

Maybe Loras’s smiles weren’t so true after all.

“You flatter me, my lady,” Jon said after bowing courteously. In a way, he was relieved. He knew what Lady Olenna and Lady Margaery goals were. Knew what they wanted from him. And now that they had all witnessed how frail Aegon was, he should have expected that they would have renewed their interest in him.

“It would only be flattery if it weren’t true,” Lady Olenna told him brusquely. She pinned her grandson with a baleful stare. “Loras, I am sure that dullard from Oldtown is looking for you. Why don’t you run along?”

Jon suddenly felt bad for assuming the other squire was in on the plot as he colored under his her gaze. “Of course, grandmother,” he said unhappily, shooting Jon a rueful smile. “I hope for a rematch soon, Jon.”

He was gone before Jon could respond, and he was left alone to face the Tyrell ladies alone. Lady Olenna had apparently dismissed the ladies with them without a word while Loras was taking his leave.

“My granddaughter and I are having our luncheon in the gardens near the Maidenvault, my prince. Join us,” the Queen of Thorns told him, not bothering to phrase it as a question. They both turned without waiting for a response and began walking.

Jon hesitated for a moment. Ser Oswell would certainly be looking for him, and Jon knew that he would have no luck convincing him that he didn’t have to wait around for him all day would be impossible if he managed to disappear on Oswell the first time he did. Plus, he _really_ didn’t want to get caught up in whatever games the Queen of Thorns was playing.

Still… if Aegon was sincere about wanting to be a brother to Jon, didn’t he owe it to him to figure out what exactly the Tyrells were plotting? It’s not like it would hurt anything but his own pride to have lunch with Olenna and Margaery. He didn’t know any secrets that he could betray, and he didn’t have any status at court that he could lose.

He quickly caught up with the two ladies, ignoring the elder’s sharp eyes and the amused gaze of the younger. “I would be honored to join you, my ladies,” he said, hoping he sounded smooth but sure he just sounded like an idiot.

Thankfully, neither of them called him on it. Instead, Margaery slipped her hand into the crook of Jon’s arm and gave him a smile. “Tell me, my prince, what are your plans if your brother sires an heir? With your skills, I’m sure you could be the next Dragonknight.”

“In more ways than one, with your looks,” Lady Olenna added dryly.

“Grandmother!” Margaery scolded in an exaggerated scandalized tone.

It took Jon a moment before he realized the insinuation. To this day, no one was quite certain if Prince Aemon had been the father of King Daeron or not. “I have no plans to be like the Dragonknight in any respect,” he replied, taken aback by the suggestion. Being on the Kingsguard would require staying in King’s Landing, and he had absolutely no intention of cuckolding his brother with Daenerys or whatever social climber he decided to take as his queen.

His brain caught up with how Margaery had begun her question as they reached the garden.

“What do you mean, if?” he demanded, looking at the two of them suspiciously.

“Men do die before they father children sometimes,” Lady Olenna told him dismissively as a servant pulled out a seat for her at the table set up in the gazebo and she took a seat. Margaery followed suit a moment later, leaving Jon standing awkwardly at the entrance of the gazebo, trying to parse through her words.

“Oh, do calm down, child,” Olenna said with a roll of her eyes. “That was hardly a threat to his grace. Just an observation of fact.”

Jon nodded stiffly before taking a seat. “I apologize.”

She waved his words away. “No need. You’re loyal. Even when King Aegon has done nothing to earn your loyalty,” she observed. “I’m not sure if that is admirable or stupid.”

He didn’t rise to that bait the way she no doubt wanted him to. For one, he wasn’t sure if he was loyal to Aegon specifically, or just didn’t want Viserys to be king. For two, if he was loyal to Aegon, it could very well be stupid of him.

“I think this topic of conversation isn’t going to make our meal very pleasant,” Lady Margaery interjected smoothly, smiling coyly at Jon. “Let’s speak of happier subjects. Tell me, Prince Jon, is there a special maiden in your life?”

Jon barely stopped himself from snorting. “I am afraid not, my lady,” he answered civilly, even ifhe thought the question was absurd. They surely knew that he avoided everyone at court like the plague, and any maiden that wasn’t at court was not have been of interest to them even if she existed.

“That’s a pity,” she said, though the way her eyes slanted to her grandmother told him that she wasn’t too disappointed. “I had thought maybe the Princess Daenerys…”

Jon did snort at that. “Daenerys has set her aim a little higher than me,” he said, knowing that that was no secret. But why would the Tyrells think that he and Daenerys would be a potential match?

“So what are your ambitions?” Olenna asked bluntly, helping herself to the platter of sweetmeats a servant had just placed on the table.

“I don’t have any,” Jon replied. It wasn’t exactly a lie. His only real ambition was to leave King’s Landing and never return. He didn’t think that was what the Queen of Thorns had in mind, though.

She hummed thoughtfully and looked at him with narrowed eyes. “I find it hard to trust a man with no ambition.”

He laughed outright at that. “My lady, I find it is hard to trust anyone at all in King’s Landing,” he told her honestly, throwing courtesy to the wind. “My feelings aren’t going to be hurt if you don’t trust me.”

He was sure he had offended her until she chuckled softly and shook her head. “You’ve got your mother’s blood in you, no doubt. With that kind of backbone, you’d be a very good king.”

“My brother is king, my lady,” he said with finality as he stood. “And I have no desire to take his place.”

He strode away at that, not caring if he was thought rude. Not knowing where Ser Oswell was other than he was no doubt searching for Jon, he disappeared into a patch of hydrangea bushes and entered into an old, nearly hidden tool shed, taking the trapdoor he knew to be there into the secret passages of the keep.

His intent was to take them to the royal sept, which was close enough to Maegor’s Holdfast that he could sneak into his chambers easily enough, unless Viserys was lurking about, that is. That meant, however, going through the passage in the Maidenvault. 

And it was on his way through one of these where he heard his name and followed the voices to investigate.

“—dangerous. This is the only way, my love,” a voice he did not recognize was saying as he inched closer to where the voices were coming, a small, inconspicuous hole in the stone wall. Though he could not see into the room, he could hear the voices loud and clear.

“Your mother is right, your grace,” Prince Oberyn’s voice was instantly discernible to Jon. “Your brother is a problem that needs dealing with.”

“I know, and I do not disagree,” the king replied. “I am just unsure if this is the best solution. Perhaps if we were to wed him off, it would be better.”

Better than what? Jon listened more intently, suddenly fearful of his brother’s plans for him. He wasn’t a danger to him, he wanted to scream. Jon wanted nothing more than Aegon to be the one sitting in that ugly, iron chair in the Great Hall.

“And run the risk of his new family rebelling in his name?” Rhaenys was the one who asked. Because of course both his siblings were scheming against him. “Only the Crownlands and Dorne are fully behind the throne thanks to Connington’s awful regency. Not only did he treat the former rebel kingdoms too harshly, but he managed to alienate the Westerlands and the Reach as well. And gods only know what the ironborn are up to. Your reign is starting off shakily enough without giving an outside family the key to the throne.”

“The Wolf and the Dragon is sung in song halls throughout the Seven Kingdoms, and your brother is legendary from that alone,” Oberyn added. Jon was puzzled, having never heard the song before, but could at least infer that it was likely about his parents. “It would not be difficult to rally people to his banner.”

“We could marry him to Daenerys and install him on Dragonstone,” Aegon suggested.

“Too close,” the voice Jon didn’t know, who must have been Queen Elia, insisted. “He’s already plotting. We can’t have Jon so close.”

Jon was indignant at that. He had not been _plotting_. He turned and stalked through the passage, not wanting to hear anymore. He let anger overtake him as it was better than letting his hurt claw itself up his throat.

He should have known that his siblings were no different than anyone else in King’s Landing. How could he be fooled into thinking that someone actually cared for him? When would he learn?

No one cared about him. No one ever would.


	7. Age 13, Part 3

Jon did his best to avoid everyone at court for the next few days. It didn’t work as well as it would have before Aegon had arrived. For some reason, everyone’s eyes seemed to be drawn to him now.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew why. Even if he hadn’t overheard his siblings conspiring, he could understand why his notoriety may have risen. Aegon was nowhere near the picture of health, and suddenly Jon was a lot closer to being king than anyone had thought. 

Maybe the idea should have thrilled him. After all, him being king would make Lord Connington and Viserys sorry that they had ever mistreated him. And no one would ever have the power to hurt him again if he were king.

But he didn’t want it. Being king would mean being trapped forever in King’s Landing, where every single person was concerned only with improving their own status. And with all the terrible memories he had in the Red Keep, why would he ever want to stay here?

That was precisely why whatever Aegon had planned for him didn’t have him too concerned. He may have been hurt that his brother saw him as nothing more than a piece on a cyvasse board, but he didn’t really care that he was apparently being exiled from King’s Landing.

He idly speculated about where he was being sent, but didn’t bother asking anyone. No one had actually told him he was being sent away yet, and he was sure Aegon would only think he was a bigger threat if he learned that Jon was eavesdropping on his private conversations.

The most logical place would be Dorne. He was sure Aegon trusted his uncle enough to keep an eye on Jon, and the Martells would never attempt to supplant Aegon with him. Jon wasn’t looking forward to it. Dorne’s climate was hotter than King’s Landing, and the heat here was uncomfortable enough. And the only Dornish person he knew outside of his siblings was Prince Oberyn, and he was sure he didn’t want to live somewhere that produced men like him.

Still, it was better than King’s Landing. He’d be taken off the cyvasse board entirely and wouldn’t have to worry about the games of court. That, at least, would be a relief.

“My prince,” Ser Oswell called, breaking him out of his thoughts. 

Jon looked up from his kneeling position in front of the oak hearttree and couldn’t help but wonder if the knight knew that the king was going to send him away. He wanted to believe that Ser Oswell would tell him if he did, but he knew the Kingsguard was loyal to the king before anyone else.

“It is nearly midday,” Oswell continued. “You’ve been here all morning. Perhaps it is time to take a break from your prayers to eat.”

Jon wasn’t sure that his contemplations in the godswood actually counted as “prayers,” but he didn’t bother to correct the knight. Ser Oswell wouldn’t be happy to know that he came here to escape more than anything else, especially now that Lorezo had put an indefinite hold on his lessons as everyone in the keep prepared for the coming-of-age ceremony when Aegon would officially take his place as king and the Connington regency would be over.

Why did there haveto be so much pomp and circumstance? It was so silly to Jon.

He wordlessly rose and began making his way back to Maegor’s Holdfast. He had barely made it out of the godswood, though, before he was intercepted by his sister and her mother, with the dour Ser Alliser Thorne at their backs.

“Brother,” Rhaenys greeted, smiling brightly at him and looping an arm through his. From her manner, Jon would have never guessed that she and Aegon saw him only as a threat to eliminate. “You must join us for our walk in the gardens. I feel as if we have had little time to get to know each other!”

Queen Elia’s smile was more subdued as she nodded in agreement, but she seemed as sincere as her daughter. They were both very good actresses. 

“Ser Oswell,” she said, looking at Jon’s protector. Her voice was stronger than Jon had expected. “My son is awaiting you in his solar on what he claims is quite urgent business.” Amusement twinkled in her eyes at his Kingsguard’s hesitation. “I am quite confident that Ser Alliser is more than capable of protecting all three of us if the need arise.”

Jon’s panicked eyes met Ser Oswell’s, whose uncertainty transformed into sharp concern as he eyed Ser Alliser and the two ladies with suspicion. Regret and guilt instantly flooded Jon at the look. He didn’t want to cause a rift between Ser Oswell and his fellow Kingsguard, and he _definitely_ didn’t want to give Rhaenys and Elia, and by extension _Aegon_ , a reason to doubt Ser Oswell’s loyalty.

Especially when his panic was irrational. His sister and her mother would not hurt him. They wanted to send him away, yes, but not hurt him.

“I will meet you in training yard afterwards,” he told the knight, forcing a smile on his face. Ser Oswell did not look convinced, but gave a short bow anyway and left. Jon turned his smile on Rhaenys. “I am at your disposal, sister.”

She looked between Ser Oswell’s retreating white cloak to Jon’s face. “Your guard cares for you very much,” she remarked with warmth in her eyes. “I am glad. He will not let any harm come to you. He worried about you when he was ordered to Dorne, you know?”

“I know,” Jon replied honestly as they began to walk towards the royal gardens.

“My uncle was a fool to leave you and Daenerys here with only Selmy for protection,” Queen Elia stated with a frustrated shake of her head. “I told him so. I even had Oberyn tell him so, but he and Doran were adamant.”

He looked at the dowager queen in shock. His head spun in confusion. He didn’t understand what game they were playing. They both seemed genuine in their warm smiles and desire to have him protected, but he knew that they secretly saw him as a threat and were plotting to send him away.

Why couldn’t people just say what they meant?

“You are surprised that I would care about your wellbeing?” Elia asked at his stunned silence. She didn’t look offended. Instead, her eyes held that glint of amusement so often in her brother’s eyes.

“Only because you have no reason to, my lady,” Jon rushed to explain all the same, realizing only a second too late that her correct title was _queen_. “You are kind to care regardless, my queen,” he tried to rectify.

She waved away his words. “I’m not kind, I am a mother concerned for her children,” she stated, the steel in her voice in direct contrast with her frail demeanor. She gave him a knowing look. “The rest of Westeros does not hold a high opinion of Dorne. We are different, our customs strange to them. They see my Aegon as a Dornish king and are leery. There are those that would use that to depose him in some way.”

A memory stirred in Jon’s mind, a half-remembered conversation with Prince Oberyn that he had barely understood at the time. “But they won’t do that as long as I am his heir,” he concluded. Suddenly he understood why he was being sent away, and he felt a fool for not realizing it sooner. “You’re afraid that Viserys will have me killed before going after Aegon.”

“Regicide is not something he would risk without being first in line for the throne,” Rhaenys confirmed.

“Viserys showed hints of the Targaryen madness at a young age,” Elia remarked sadly. “Your father knew it, and knew it was imperative that he had enough heirs to ensure that Viserys would be far down the line of succession. That was why we agreed that he would take a second wife. I knew early on in my second pregnancy that I wouldn’t have another. Of course,” she smiled ruefully, “I don’t think either of us foresaw him falling so hard for your mother, and their love being the cause of the tragic misunderstandings that sparked the rebellion.”

“Did you know her?” Jon asked, desperate for any scrap of information about his mother. Lyanna Stark was a name that few dared whispered in the Red Keep. 

“Only a little,” she told him, looking at him in understanding. “She was very beautiful, but according to Rhaegar, she was as fierce as a direwolf and as untamable as the sea. You look very much like her.”

He hadn’t inherited anything from her but his looks, though, he thought, trying to keep that from devastating him. He wasn’t fierce or _untamable_. He would have surely been a disappointment to his mother.

Suddenly feeling trapped by their sympathetic looks and false concern, Jon quickly excused himself and all but ran to his chambers, thankful to have met no one else on the way there.

He was no dragon or direwolf, and his only use was as a shield for Aegon against the plots of his uncle. He may have been wrong about his siblings plotting against him, but he was right that they saw him only as a game piece to move about as they pleased. 

For some reason, that was even worse. If he were a threat, that would mean that they would care about his desires and emotions, if only to calculate what his next move would be. In reality, though, he would just be moved about by them without any consideration for the fact that he was a person with feelings of his own.

It was only further confirmation of a fact that he had always known, though. In King’s Landing, you were either a player of the courtly games or a piece to be played with. There was no place for someone who did not care to be either.

Then again, Jon always knew that there was no place for him in King’s Landing. Now, though, knowing how fierce his mother was and how fierce he most certainly was _not_ , he was beginning to wonder if there was a place for him anywhere.

 

#

 

It was two days later that Jon learned that he was to play a role in the upcoming festivities. Apparently, the coming-of-age ceremony was not the empty pomp and circumstance that Jon had assumed. Aegon had summoned all the Lords Paramount and their heirs to the capital to renew their vows of fealty to him. Jon was expected to greet each lord upon their arrival and sit in on their audiences with Aegon.

“I’ll do most of the talking when we greet them,” Rhaenys assured him the morning he learned of this, which was also the the morning the first party was set to arrive. “As Aegon’s heir, though, it’s important that you are present and showing the Lords Paramount that you and Aegon are in accord with your plans for the realm.”

Jon had no idea how he was supposed to be “in accord” with Aegon’s plans for the realm when he had no idea what those plans were, but he didn’t tell her that. Out of his two siblings, Rhaenys was the one who sought him out and spoke to him the most. He occasionally supped with both her and Aegon, but Aegon did not leave his chambers often. 

Jon suspected this was due to Aegon’s health more than it was any intended slight to Jon. He had seen the strain that taking the kingdom back from Connington and planning the upcoming ceremony had taken on both of his siblings.

“Would you like me to wear anything specific?” he asked in resignation, knowing that there was no use arguing. It might not have been couched as a direct order from the king, but the implication was there. Besides, if the choice was to strengthen Aegon’s reign or weaken it and leave him vulnerable to Viserys, Jon knew which choice he would take.

“The red silk tunic under the black and gold embroidered doublet,” she answered immediately, knowing his new wardrobe better than he did. 

Most of his new clothing was formal wear in Targaryen colors so it wasn’t hard to figure out what went with what. There were a few pieces in different colors, but Jon had come to realize that Aegon and Rhaenys preferred to flaunt the Targaryen colors in formal gatherings, and were determined to include Jon to show that he belonged to them. 

Somehow, they had also contrived to be sure that Viserys and Daenerys always wore a variation of the colors that clashed with theirs. If Daenerys wore a black dress with red accents, Rhaenys would be decked in red with accents of orange and yellow flames. If Viserys wore a red tunic with a black doublet, Aegon would be in a white tunic studded with rubies. It no doubt infuriated his aunt and uncle, but it was one game that Jon could not help but be amused by.

He quickly dressed in what Rhaenys told him before leaving for the courtyard, where he and Rhaenys would greet their guests. Ser Oswell was, as always, a silent white shadow at his back, but he was joined by his newly acquired squire, Loras Tyrell.

Jon was still uncertain as to why Aegon had ordered Ser Oswell to take over the Tyrell boy’s squireship. He was still leery of the other boy after Jon’s run-in with his grandmother and sister, but Loras had given him no reason to think he was nothing more than a dedicated squire. He hated to admit it, but most of Jon’s mislike of the squire was due to having to share Ser Oswell with him.

The people milling about in the courtyard reminded him of when Viserys came to King’s Landing years ago. The difference was that they were now eyeing him with interest and their bows were more flamboyant and less perfunctory. And, of course, it was Rhaenys at his side when he got to the front of the welcoming party and _not_ Lord Connington. She may only see him as a piece in their games, but she was definitely an improvement.

Earlier that morning, the Baratheon party had been seen within a few hours ride of the city. They would be arriving any moment. Jon wracked his mind for what he remembered about Lord Stannis Baratheon. He might not be expected to say much, but he couldn’t very well be silent for the entire meeting, and remembering anything about the Baratheons might be useful.

He wished that Rhaenys had given him more notice that he would be expected to be here. He would have to brush up on the other Lords Paramount to be prepared for the other meetings.

It wasn’t long before the Baratheon party thundered into the courtyard, yellow and black banners streaming above them. The men swept off of their horses, and the man in front approached Jon and Rhaenys. Jon was sure that this was Lord Stannis Baratheon. 

Lord Baratheon was a tall, imposing man with a receding hairline and grey shot through his black hair. His eyes were icy blue as they took in the courtyard and focused in on Jon.

“My prince,” Lord Stannis greeted with a bow. He glanced up at Rhaenys. “My princess.”

“Lord Baratheon,” Rhaenys replied with a courteous smile and nod of her head.

Jon gave a nod of his own as the Baratheons’ eyes slid from his sister back to him. His smile was no doubt less welcoming than Rhaenys’s, but he felt entirely out of his depth. Judging by Stannis’s baleful gaze in his direction, he was sure it showed.

“I apologize for my brother’s absence in greeting you,” Rhaenys continued smoothly. “I am afraid he is indisposed at the moment, but you are most welcome to King’s Landing.”

“I imagine the king has more important things to do than greet his invited guests,” Stannis remarked dryly. Jon had to suppress a snort at the lord’s audacity. Clearly, the Baratheons were not worried about insulting the throne despite their rebellious history.

“His grace has many duties to keep him busy as he prepares to take full control of the realm,” Rhaenys shot back coolly. 

“I had hoped to have an audience with _his grace_ ,” Stannis answered with a severe frown on his face. “The Stormlands have suffered greatly under his Hand’s regency.”

“You will have your audience, Lord Baratheon, when the other lords arrive,” she told him, her eyes telling Jon that she was barely keeping her anger in check. “King Aegon intends to speak with you all at once so that all grievances and agreements can be known. There will be no secrets in his court.”

Jon couldn’t quite school his features to conceal his own incredulity at the statement. No one would be naive enough to believe that. From Lord Baratheon’s expression, he was nowhere near naive.

Before another word could be said, an elegant lady in a pale green gown approached Stannis from behind, having just alighted from the small wheelhouse that entered the courtyard last. If Jon remembered correctly, this must be Stannis’s wife, Lady Serra Errol, the younger sister of the Lady of Haystack Hall. Clinging to her skirts were two young boys, both with their father’s black hair and blue eyes.

“My prince,” she greeted demurely. “Princess.”

Stannis looked unhappy with her appearance, though Jon could not tell if it was because she was there or because it meant he had to introduce her and prolong his conversation with the Targaryen princess.

“As you can see, princess,” he said, though his jaw was so tight that Jon wondered how any sound came out, “I have brought my heir Steffon as ordered by his grace. As he is far too young to travel so far without his mother, my wife, Lady Serra, and my younger son Orys have also travelled with me.”

By the end of the less than cordial introduction, Rhaenys and Stannis were nearly glaring at each other. Jon gathered his courage and attempted to diffuse the situation.

“You are most welcome in King’s Landing, Lady Baratheon,” he told her with what he hoped was a charming smile. “As are your children.”

She looked at him with grateful eyes as she stepped forward more confidently to stand at her husband’s side. “I thank you, my prince. It gladdens my heart to see you well.”

The remark confused him but he pressed on with an effort. He was the one who had had the brilliant idea to speak up, after all. He could not falter now. “Your concern is appreciate, my lady.”

“We are all appreciative of both my brothers’ good health,” Rhaenys stated, surveying the Lord and Lady of Storm’s End with a careful eye. “Now, I am sure you are tired from your journey. My brother and I will leave you to get settled. I do look forward to speaking with you later.”

Jon was relieved with they took their leave from the Baratheons and departed the courtyard. He was less relieved, though, when he noticed his sister eyeing him speculatively.

“You did very well, Jon,” she stated, the right corner of her mouth curving upward.

The compliment did not sit easy with him. “Will all the lords be so…” he trailed off, not knowing what word would best describe Stannis Baratheon.

Rhaenys frowned. “I doubt any will be that forthright about it,” she answered after a moment’s consideration. “But most of the kingdoms have reasons to resent the crown after Connington’s regency.”

At least he wasn’t the only one Connington mistreated. Jon felt a little vindicated at that. “When do the others arrive?”

“Within the next week,” she replied. “The Tullys, Lannisters, and Tyrells will come by land, but the further kingdoms will come by sea and likely end up arriving near the same time. I will ensure you have a few hours notice before you’re needed.”

Jon felt like a motley fool, brought out to perform and distract the arriving lords from their frail and absent king. It wasn’t as if he could complain though. This was his duty to his king and family, whether he liked it or not.

And if this was the only thing he was good for, then he could at least do it well.


	8. Age 13, Part 4

The Lannisters were the next guests that Jon was expected to greet, though they weren’t the next to arrive. With no warning and with surprisingly little fanfare, Prince Doran Martell and his heir, the Princess Arianne, had arrived in King’s Landing a day after Lord Baratheon. Jon was doing his best to remain out of their way though, particularly Arianne’s. She frightened him in a way that was different but similar to her Uncle Oberyn.

Tywin Lannister was an imposing man whose calculating gaze made Jon feel shorter than his son and heir, Tyrion. Unlike with the Baratheons, Jon kept his mouth shut when the lions arrived. Thankfully, they hadn’t said anything to him that required an answer, though their eyes did not stray from him often, even with Rhaenys at his side looking radiant in a low cut dress made of silken strips that looked like flames.

Needless to say, their unnerving stares put them in the same category of all the other people in the Red Keep that Jon was determined to avoid.

Lord Tyrell arrived next, with what appeared to be his entire household. His mother and daughter were already in King’s Landing, of course. His wife Lady Alerie accompanied him, and his son and heir Willas. With Willas came his wife, Cersei Lannister, along with their daughter Myrcella and twin sons, Joffrey and Tommen. Only Lord Tyrell’s second son, Garlan, had stayed behind at Highgarden.

For as much attention Olenna, Margaery, and Loras, who had become a regular sparring partner for Jon, had given him, the Tyrells had paid surprisingly little attention to him, except for Lady Cersei. She might have been a rose now, but Jon had no doubt that the proud lioness had not been declawed. Jon was sure that the Tyrell women were the dangerous ones in that family.

Of course, with so many people at court and with him under so much scrutiny, Jon wasn’t able to avoid everyone, much to his disappointment.

He never would have guessed that it would be Daenerys who managed to corner him, though. Not when she had only ever sought him out once before. It was easy for her to defeat his efforts to evade everyone. Her chambers were in the same wing as his, after all, and there were no secret passages in the Holdfast.

Still, he was fairly surprised when she knocked on his door while he was breaking his fast. She looked discontented when he opened the door, shooting a glare at Ser Oswell before plastering on a smile for him. Jon looked to his guard in askance.

“The princess made to enter without knocking,” he told Jon, causing Daenerys’s smile to fall into a scowl. “I reminded her that that would be quite rude.”

“I merely wished to see you, nephew,” she said, regaining her composure and her smile. “I feel as if we have barely seen each other as of late, let alone speak.”

“Because we’ve had so many long conversations before,” Jon replied sarcastically, but waved her in anyway. Daenerys was no threat to him. Her influence at court had gone down once it was clear that Aegon held her in no special regard, and she certainly posed no physical threat to him.

She looked less than pleased at his honesty as she stalked past him and into his solar, taking a seat on the settee. “I’ve never mistreated you,” she said grumpily as Jon shut the door and returned to his breakfast table.

“You were definitely were not kind to me,” he countered, spearing a piece of sausage and eating it, uncaring about his rudeness. “And you did admit that you hoped Viserys would direct his abuse towards me instead of you.”

“If I were kind to you, it would have made Viserys worse,” she said, leaning back and crossing her arms petulantly. “As queen, I would have made sure he was sent far away and that you were treated better, though.”

Jon raised an eyebrow at her. “Would have? Have you given up on being queen then?”

Daenerys scowled once more. “ _His grace_ has made it quite clear that I will never be his queen. Or so your sister tells me. I’ve been told that an excellent match will be made for me. I’m to be sold off to a stranger far from my home.”

He softened a bit towards her. He could sympathize with being shipped off to the unknown, though he would be happy to leave his home. “I am sure your future husband will ensure your happiness,” Jon told her. “No one would dare mistreat the king’s aunt.”

“Like no one would dare mistreat the king’s _brother_ ,” she shot back before deflating. “I’m sorry. That was not called for.”

“No, it wasn’t,” he said with a frown. He wasn’t surprised that she had flung his attempt at kindness back at him. “So what do you want from me?”

She stood up and approached the table, placing her hands on the side opposite of him and leaning over his breakfast. “I want you to marry me.”

Jon blinked at that. “No,” he said without having to think about it.

His quick answer caused her to falter and step back. “Why not?” she asked in genuine confusion. “Am I not beautiful enough for you?”

“It has nothing to do with beauty,” he replied, bewildered by her naivety. “I simply have no desire to spend the rest of my life with someone who cares nothing for me and who has spent the last three years ignoring me.”

“I could care about you,” Daenerys said quietly.

Jon snorted. “Sure you could. You just don’t.”

But she could respond to that, Jon’s door opened without warning and Rhaenys strolled into his solar as if it were her right. Jon rolled his eyes. Whoever Aegon took as his queen, he hoped that they were prepared to come in second to his sister.

“Are we having a family meeting without anyone informing me?” she asked breezily, taking an apple from the bowl on Jon’s table and lounging on the settee that Daenerys had vacated.

“Our aunt was just trying to convince me to marry her, sister,” Jon quipped, smiling placidly at Daenerys as she shot him a betrayed glare.

“I’m afraid I have to protest that elopement,” Rhaenys replied airily. “We’ve already made plans for your hand, dear aunt. I’m afraid we must all make sacrifices for the realm.”

Daenerys scowled. “I don’t see _you_ making any sacrifices,” she said coldly before stalking out of the room, door slamming behind her, leaving Jon as the only one who caught the fleeting sadness in the other princess’s dark eyes.

“For all the abuse Viserys gave her growing up, she is impossibly spoiled,” Rhaenys scoffed. “She ought to be grateful. She has absolutely no head for court. She’d be an awful queen.”

“You’d be a good one,” Jon stated, not knowing if the statement was meant to cheer her or accuse her.

She smiled smugly. “I would. Unfortunately, the only way I become queen is if I marry the king, who is my brother,” she said sardonically. “Our ancestors may have wed brother and sister, but I’m afraid that I cannot help but find it distasteful. We are not above everyone else in the realm. We have no right to engage in something reviled by the world and call it lawful only for us.” She paused before glancing impishly to Jon. “Sorry to disappoint you, brother, if you were hoping to wed and bed me.”

He colored at that. “No, I, um,” he stumbled over his words. He didn’t want to tell her how relieved he was to hear that she wouldn’t be marrying _him_.

Rhaenys laughed. “It’s alright, Jon,” she assured. “I understand. Though I had thought we were past your shyness by now. You’ve been very forthright with your words as of late. I thought you were growing more comfortable with us.”

Jon frowned. He hadn’t realized he had been speaking more freely to his family, but he supposed it was true. It wasn’t, however, because he was more comfortable. He just didn’t care anymore. They would always just see him as someone to be used or, in Viserys’s case, abused, so why should he hold his tongue?

He wasn’t about to tell Rhaenys that though.

“ _Do_ you and Aegon have a marriage in mind for me?” he asked, dreading the answer but needing to know. If he were being sent to Dorne, he was afraid they might betroth him to Princess Arianne. Though she was undoubtedly beautiful, he was sure that would be like marrying a female Oberyn.

“Nothing set in stone,” she replied with a shrug. “We’d like to you to remain unmarried until Aegon has a son. If you become king, your marriage will be very important.”

“I don’t want to be king,” he said, pushing his eggs around on his plate absently.

Rhaenys sat up at that and gave him a stern look. “You’ll be king if Aegon dies without an heir, and you’ll be a great one,” she told him fiercely. “I will ensure it. You’ve had a princely education, and you’ve lived your own whole life at court. Who better to be king after Aegon than you? Certainly not Viserys.”

Jon couldn’t think of anything he wanted less than being king except maybe Viserys being king. “Well, let’s pray that Aegon has a son.”

She made a noise of amusement at that and stood. “Yes. You pray to the old gods, and I’ll pray to the new. Perhaps between the two of us, we’ll ensure our brother is fruitful.” She made towards the door before pausing and looking back. “The Tullys and Arryns will be arriving this afternoon, one by land and the other by sea. You’ll be on the docks to greet Lord Arryn while I greet Lord Tully.”

She left before he had a chance to protest, panicked at the idea of greeting one of the Lords Paramount alone.

 

#

 

Jon shifted nervously as Lord Arryn’s ship, with its blue and white banner flying high, slowly made its way to the dock. He wished Rhaenys would have waited to tell him that he would be alone until after his midday meal. At least then he would have been able to eat. Instead, he had worried all morning and had been unable to touch his food. Maybe he wouldn’t feel as queasy if he had eaten something.

It didn’t help that Viserys had decided to be there to greet Lord Arryn as well.

He was grateful for Ser Oswell’s strong and steady presence at his side. He was sure the knight was the only thing keeping Viserys from pushing forward and usurping Jon’s position. Not that Jon would particularly have minded if Viserys wanted to be the one to welcome Lord Arryn, but he was sure that Viserys would only use it as an opportunity to humiliate him or undermine Aegon.

Loras stood at his other side, and though Jon still wasn’t sure how he felt about the squire, he was glad for the additional buffer, and sword, between him and Viserys, especially when he did not have a blade himself.

Lord Arryn was not particularly intimidating, Jon thought, once the ship docked and the Lord Paramount of the Vale disembarked. He was stopped with old age, and when he got closer, Jon could see that half of his teeth were missing. His lady wife came with him, a small child on her hip who Jon was sure was Robin Arryn but who looked too young to be the heir to the Vale.

“Lord Arryn,” Jon said in a voice that was stronger than he felt. “Welcome to King’s Landing.”

“My dear prince,” the old lord said, giving a deep bow. He straightened as much as he could and gazed at Jon with surprisingly warm eyes. “I am very happy to meet you. Your uncle Eddard was fostered in the Eyrie, and you look very much like him.” 

“I’m afraid I will have to take your word for it, my lord,” he replied, feeling a little off-balance at the genuine regard Lord Arryn was showing him. “I have yet to meet him, but I am looking forward to the opportunity. He is set to arrive soon.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Lord Arryn said. “I should like to see him once more and introduce him to my son, and his other nephew, of course. May I present my lady wife, Lysa,” he continued, waving the red-headed woman forward. “And my son, Robert.”

“It is a pleasure, my lady,” Jon greeted, trying not to be unnerved by her wary gaze. The Vale, he knew, was one of the kingdoms who had been treated harshly by Lord Connington. He supposed it was because Lord Arryn was technically the first to rebel against Aerys by refusing to send him the heads of Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon. “Your father and brother should be arriving as we speak. My sister Rhaenys is greeting them at the keep. She and the king send their apologies at being unable to greet you personally.”

Jon felt rather proud of himself that he had managed to get all of his words out without stammering.

Lady Lysa’s eyes flickered to Ser Oswell, who Jon belatedly remember was a distant cousin of hers, before settling on Jon once more. “I am please to make your acquaintance, my prince,” she intoned, dipping into a curtsy made awkward by the child on her hip.

“Will his grace be available for an audience soon?” Lord Arryn asked.

Viserys spoke up before Jon could answer. “King Aegon has far more important matters to attend. He does not have time to spare for traitors.”

The Arryns and their retinue were incensed by that. What warmth that was in Lord Arryn’s face turned cold at Viserys’s words. Jon quickly tried to repair the damage, knowing he’d pay for it if Viserys ever managed to catch him alone.

“My uncle speaks out of turn,” he said firmly. “My brother is very eager to meet with you and all of the Lords Paramount. He wishes to meet with you all together in the spirit of openness.”

Jon resolutely ignored the look of rage on Viserys’s face and concentrated on Lord and Lady Arryn. Lady Arryn still looked mildly displeased but seemed placated. Lord Arryn, though, was still staring coldly at Viserys.

“I am truly sorry if we have offended you, my lord,” Jon pressed on, knowing that Rhaenys and Aegon were counting on him and hoping that Viserys hadn’t caused him to let them down.

Lord Arryn gave him a look of surprise. “Of course you haven’t offended me, my dear boy,” he assured with a smile.

Relief flooded Jon. He hadn’t failed after all. “Good. Now, I am sure you would like to get settled in your chambers. Perhaps we should adjourn to the Red Keep.”

 

#

 

Jon went straight to the godswood once he left the Arryns, craving the solitude after such a harrowing day. He would have hidden away in his chambers, but that morning had taught him that he wasn’t guaranteed solitude there. No one but Ser Oswell had ever sought him out in old gods’ domain, and the white knight was stationed at the entrance of the wood to ensure that no one disturbed him now.

Though he sent up a quick prayer that Aegon would marry and have a son soon, preferably many sons to push Jon far down the succession, he mostly just enjoyed the quiet, sitting with his back to the oak hearttree and closing his eyes to soak it in.

He hadn’t been there long before a sound of a twig snapping nearby caused his eyes to fly open as he sat up straight, heart pounding in fear that some threat had managed to get through Ser Oswell and find him defenseless.

Instead, he found a man who, though he was older, taller, and broader, looked very much like him.

He stood quickly, but didn’t make a move forward, unsure what the man was doing there. He was fairly sure he knew who the man was, but Jon hadn’t been told that he was arriving.

They stood there for a moment, staring at each other, before the older man took a hesitant step forward.

“Jon?” he said in a low voice, staring at him as if he were a thing of wonder.

“Lord… Stark…?” Jon replied uncertainly. He didn’t know if he should move forward or not. He didn’t understand why the man was gazing at him with eyes shining with unshed tears.

His voice apparently spurred his uncle on, as the lord closed the distance between them hastily. Jon flinched, though, when he raised his hands, and Lord Stark paused before fury flashed across his features. The fury would have made Jon back away instinctively if Lord Stark wasn’t quicker.

Strong arms wrapped around him and pulled him close, so that Jon’s face was pressed against his uncle’s leather jerkin. He tensed before he realized that the man meant him no harm from the hold and slowly relaxed into his uncle’s embrace. It took him a moment to remember that such embraces were typically reciprocated by the other party and hastily brought his arms up to wrap around Lord Stark’s back.

“My boy,” his uncle murmured, pulling back slightly and placing his hands on Jon’s shoulders. His eyes roved Jon’s face hungrily, as if wanting to memorize it. “I am so sorry for leaving you here alone.”

“It wasn’t your fault, my lord,” Jon said, looking down at his feet. He wasn’t sure what else to say. He knew that he was a hostage to keep the Northern rebels in line, though he wasn’t supposed to know that. He hadn’t been expecting for Lord Stark to be this affected though.

“We’re family, Jon,” he said earnestly. “I’d prefer it if you’d call me Uncle Ned.”

It was too close to Rhaenys and Aegon’s insistence on him calling them by name for Jon to really trust Lord Stark’s words. His siblings had acted caring towards him at first as well. He couldn’t help but wonder what game Lord Stark was playing.

“Uncle Ned,” he replied in agreement, trying to give a smile that looked natural. Like most of the courtly games, all he could really do was play along.


	9. Age 13, Part 5

As it turned out, the Starks and the Tullys had arrived together. Lord Hoster Tully’s illness had taken a turn for the worst, and the lord had taken to bed. Lord and Lady Stark, along with their children, had petitioned Lord Connington a few moons ago for permission to travel to Riverrun. Lord Stark and his heir, Robb, had traveled with Edmure Tully, Lord Hoster’s heir. A fact that Rhaenys had known and had intentionally kept from Jon.

He was annoyed, but not surprised. 

All but the Greyjoys had arrived, and the Red Keep was growing crowded. Jon hated it, but with so many people around, it was easy to avoid the Starks.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t _curious_ about his mother’s family. It’s just that he didn’t know what they wanted from him yet. What use was he to them?

That was a stupid question. What use was he to anyone but as the heir to Aegon?

Not able to stand the eyes of any of the visiting nobles and _especially_ not those of either of his families, he did what he always did when life in the Red Keep became too trying. He escaped into the secret passages. It earned him disgruntled looks from Ser Oswell whenever he slipped through the nearest hidden door after breaking his fast with the dawn and when he turned up hours later long after the sun had set.

He had appeased the knight by agreeing to pack food for his day-long retreats into the dark tunnels and to always appear at the door in the armory.

His time wasn’t wasted, though, by hiding away in the passages. He managed to learn a great many things about the Red Keep’s occupants. It was surprising how freely people spoke when they believed they were behind closed doors, particularly in a castle known for having hidden passages.

The first thing he overheard was a dinner between the disgruntled Lord Rosby and Grand Maester Pycelle. Lord Rosby was certain he was going to be replaced as master of coin, and Pycelle suspected that the Conclave was going to reassign him by request of the king and appoint Lorezo as Grand Maester. 

Jon wasn’t surprised by that news. Aegon and Rhaenys wanted to renew and revitalize the capital and the entire realm. The first step in that would surely be new members on the Small Council. Rosby and Pycelle’s ages alone would disqualify them from such a task. Lord Tarly would probably be replaced as well, and Connington would definitely not be Aegon’s Hand. Prince Oberyn’s position was likely safe. The only change for him may be an appointment to a better position.

He also learned that Lord Lannister was likely to ask Aegon to make his daughter’s second son, Tommen Tyrell, the heir to Casterly Rock over his son Tyrion. While it was news to him, though, it was met with a knowing silence when an inebriated Lord Tyrion was discussing it with Prince Oberyn. Jon wondered if Aegon would allow Lord Tywin to circumvent the laws of succession. Tywin could do it without Aegon’s permission, of course, but the king’s seal could ensure there weren’t any challenges to Tommen or his future heirs.

He also found out that at least some Lords Paramount were getting a private royal audience. Not with Aegon. Not after Rhaenys had announced to each of them that Aegon would only speak with them together. That didn’t, however, stop them from meeting alone with _Rhaenys_ , which he had learned when he accidentally eavesdropped on part of Stannis Baratheon’s meeting with her.

“—forgive me if I find your word to be somewhat untrustworthy,” Baratheon was saying in a dry voice when Jon enter the tunnel adjacent to Queen Elia’s chambers in the Maidenvault. “Under your brother’s Hand and Regent, the Stormlands have suffered harsh taxes, insulting trade agreements, and the indignity of having to ask for _permission_ to leave our kingdom. King Aegon did nothing to intervene on our behalf. He seems a spoiled selfish child that is content to let those he is responsible for suffer.”

“Aegon was not of age yet,” Rhaenys cut in sharply. “He had no hand in those decisions.”

“He had _influence_ ,” Stannis retorted. “A word of displeasure from Rhaegar’s son would have kept that besotted fool Connington in line. Or maybe not,” he added, almost sounding like an afterthought but coming off as too deliberate to Jon’s ears. “Being Rhaegar’s son apparently didn’t save Prince Jon from being abused and ostracized on Connington’s watch.”

Jon’s face burned at that and he quickly fled the tunnel, not wanting to hear anything more. Gods, did the whole realm know how he was treated at court? Why had nobody done anything? Did they believe him too weak to bother with?

He was at least grateful that Lord Baratheon had not made such a statement when he had welcomed the lord to the keep. He would have been mortified for the subject to be brought up so publicly.

Jon slipped out of the secret passages early that day, chagrinned to see Ser Oswell waiting dutifully for him nearby despite being hours before he usually appeared.

“Do you just stand here all day?” he muttered, looking down at his feet and feeling foolish for not realizing it sooner.

The knight shrugged. “The alternative is going into the passages with you. I assumed you would prefer this, even if it gives me grey hairs worrying about the dangers that could befall you when you’re alone.”

Jon’s guilt doubled at that. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Oswell asked. He continued without giving Jon a chance to answer, likely because he knew exactly what Jon was thinking. “Something had to upset you to drive you out this early.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said dismissively, striding towards the training yard. He almost wanted Ser Oswell to press him. It would have been nice, for a change, for someone to genuinely care what was in his head, but of course, he didn’t. Maybe the knight did care, but loyalty was too ingrained in him to question Jon’s words.

“Well,” the knight said, grabbing two blunted blades from the armory before falling Jon into the yard. “Since you’ve surfaced before nightfall, I can assess your progress. It’s been a while since you and I have sparred.”

Jon welcomed the distraction and threw himself into his swordplay. Sparring with Loras had given him an opportunity to adjust some of his moves, and he thought it had made him a bit better. He didn’t think it was his imagination that he managed to last a little longer against Ser Oswell before he was ultimately disarmed.

They went a couple of more bouts, all of which Jon lost, before the Kingsguard called a halt.

“I see your practice with Loras is serving you well,” he noted with an approving nod. “One of these days, you’ll be able to beat me.”

“Will I be ready for live steel soon?” Jon asked, encouraged by the praise enough to ask the question that had been on his mind ever since he had met Loras. The squire had been sparring with live steel since he was two and ten, or so he told Jon. He only used a blunted blade when he sparred with Jon.

Oswell’s eyes took on a regretful sheen as he sighed. “Barristan thought you were ready for live steel a year ago, but after the incident with Viserys and the arrow, Connington forbade it.”

Jon swallowed the lump that suddenly swelled in his thought and looked away. “Ser Barristan told you about that?” he asked, the shame from earlier welling inside him once more.

“He didn’t have to,” he replied in a gentle tone that bespoke of bad news. He hesitated slightly before continuing, “With the princess’s tourney, the rumor spread throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Ser Barristan only confirmed it when I asked why he hadn’t given you live steel yet.”

Jon’s heart felt like it was being crushed as he blinked back tears. It was bad enough that everyone in King’s Landing thought he was worthless. Did all of Westeros have to know what a shameful joke he was?

Ser Oswell took a step forward. “My prince—“

“Don’t.” He held up a hand and took a deep breath, aware that there were far too many people in the training yard for him to break down. Gathering whatever strength he had, he met his guard’s worried eyes and nodded. “Thank you for telling me,” he said, proud that his voice did not waver.

He returned his blade with as much grace as he could muster and even managed to calmly walk to his chambers, Ser Oswell a white shadow at his back.

“Please do not let anyone disturb me tonight,” Jon told him once they reached his door.

The knight nodded. “I’ll have a servant bring up your supper and allow no one else in.”

Jon almost told him not to bother, but the worry in Ser Oswell’s eyes stopped him. He might not feel like eating anything, but the knight would only worry more if he did not allow food to be brought up. “Thank you,” he said instead before shutting himself in his chambers, heaving a sigh of relief once he was finally alone.

It didn’t matter, he told himself harshly. No one was ever going to hold him in much regard anyway. He was a parentless boy whose only use was as a mindless tool for his siblings, and surely most of the realm had understood that long before he had. Who cared if they thought him a weak fool as well? It wasn’t as if he could sink much lower in their esteem.

 

#

 

As much as Jon wanted to shut himself in his room until Aegon’s coming-of-age ceremony, he refused to give the nobles at court the satisfaction of seeing him cowed. Escaping into the secret tunnels had probably not helped him, but he was done hiding. It wasn’t as if he had anything to hide anyway.

Instead of hiding away, he broke his fast early and ventured out of his chambers. Ser Oswell gave him a surprised look as he stepped into the corridor, but didn’t say a word. Jon cringed as another door opened as he was shutting his own. Despite resolving to stop hiding, he hadn’t thought he would have to face someone so soon.

“Good morning, brother,” Aegon’s quiet voice greeted him as he turned around, his brother walking towards him with Ser Arthur at his back. “You are up early.”

“Y—Aegon,” Jon replied, stopping himself from addressing him formally. “I woke early and could not fall back to sleep,” he explained, not necessarily lying. The truth was that he had never truly fallen asleep last night, tossing and turning and giving up once the sun peeked through his window.

“Would you care to join me?” the king asked with a welcoming smile. “I am on my way to the royal sept to pray before meeting Rhaenys and Mother for our morning meal.”

Jon wasn’t sure if Aegon’s welcome was genuine or not, but he was glad that he had a ready excuse. “I’ve already broken my fast, and I am afraid I do not follow the Seven.”

Aegon’s brow furrowed. “Oh? I had thought that you would have been named in the Light of the Seven as Rhaenys and I were.”

“I was,” he replied, though he wasn’t really sure. He had always assumed that he had been. No septon or septa had bothered to indoctrinate him in the Faith, and he had stopped attending services in the sept when Viserys had arrived. Not that his uncle was particularly faithful, but he took any opportunity to be seen and lord over others. “But I follow the gods of my mother.”

The truth of that was debatable. He spent much of his time in the godswood, and had taken to praying before the hearttree, but he wasn’t sure if he could be said to _follow_ the old gods. He wasn’t exactly sure what followers of the old gods _did_. The Seven had rules and the Seven Point Star and septons and septas. The old gods had none of that.

Aegon, though, accepted the statement easily. “I am sure she would have been happy to know that,” he told him, a pleased smile on his face. “And I am sure it is a nice way for you to feel close to her. Are you headed to the godswood now? I could walk a piece with you. It is not out of the way.”

Jon couldn’t think of a way to refuse him gracefully, and since he had considered visiting the godswood anyway, he acquiesced and fell into step beside his brother, Sers Oswell and Arthur trailing them faithfully.

“Rhaenys tells me you have been avoiding everyone these past days,” the king remarked casually, a question in his statement.

He should have known that his absence wouldn’t have gone unnoticed. “The castle is more crowded than I am used to,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant. “I know it better than most, though. There are many places one can go that most wouldn’t be able to find.”

“We’ve taken over your home. I’m sorry,” Aegon said with a frown. “We never even considered how this must feel for you.”

While Jon definitely believed that Aegon and Rhaenys hadn’t considered his feelings in any of their plans, he did for one second believe that Aegon was sorry for not considering them. Jon’s feelings didn’t matter to them as long as he did what they wanted him to. And it’s not like he could _refuse_ the _king_.

He made a noncommittal sound, and they walked for a while in silence. Jon kept glancing at Aegon out of the side of his eye, wishing he knew exactly why his brother had wanted his company. The king’s face was unreadable, but he did not appear to be in any hurry to reach their destination. Or maybe his slow gait had more to do with health than it did his reluctance to part company with Jon.

“Has Rhaenys told you that the ceremony will be tomorrow?” Aegon asked as they neared the entrance to the godswood.

Jon frowned in confusion. “But the Greyjoys have yet to arrive.”

“Varys’s little birds have informed us that Balon Greyjoy has crowned himself King of Salt and Rock and declared independence from the Iron Throne,” he replied with a heavy sigh. “I suppose we should be grateful that it’s only one kingdom to try and break away.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. They both knew that it would mean war. The Iron Islands couldn’t be allowed to break away with no consequence. It was only a question of when and how long it would last. Thankfully, they reached the godswood before Jon had to think of something to say.

“We’ll need all the lords with us if we want to swiftly take care of the ironborn problem,” Aegon said as they paused in front of the entrance before parting. “The ceremony tomorrow and the council the next day _must_ go well, Jon. We will need you with us for that to happen.”

Jon frowned but nodded. He didn’t understand what Aegon thought he would do, but he had not planned to do anything but say as little as possible and try his best to not look stupid. “I shall pray that everything goes as planned,” he said, hoping it would spur Aegon on to the sept.

“And so shall I,” his brother stated, clapping him on the shoulder before stepping back. “I will leave you to it.”

He watched Aegon leave with relief. He hadn’t interacted with his brother, and he still felt awkward in his presence. Rhaenys, at least, had grown familiar to him, and while Jon was well aware that his siblings were very much a cohesive team, his sister did not intimidate him like Aegon did.

“My prince?” Ser Oswell’s questioning voice broke him out of his thoughts. 

He turned to his guard and gave him a small smile. “I won’t be long here,” he assured him, figuring that if he was going to stop hiding, then he couldn’t spend all morning in the godswood. “Then perhaps we can go to the training yard. I haven’t practiced my archery in a while.”

The knight nodded. “I will be here, my prince.”

He entered the godswood, feeling a sense of ease as soon as he entered. He wondered if it was because the old gods were actually presence despite the lack of a true weirwood or simply because this was a place where few people in King’s Landing ever visited.

Of course, as luck would have it, out of the few people in King’s Landing that might visit the godswood, one happened to be there when Jon arrived.

He froze as he caught sight of the figure kneeling in front of the oak hearttree. At first, he was afraid it was Lord Stark, and he mentally kicked himself for forgetting that the last time he was in the godswood, he had had a surprise encounter with his uncle. On closer look, though, the figure was more a boy than a man, looking to be around Jon’s age, with dark auburn hair that Eddard Stark did not have.

Before he could make a valiant retreat, having already had one unplanned encounter this morning and not wanting another, the boy turned around.

The boy’s blue eyes widened and a smile stretched over his face as he scrambled to his feet. “Jon!” he greeted eagerly before seeming to remember himself. His face fell and he cringed. “I mean, my prince.”

Jon was bewildered by the boy’s greeting, not only by his familiar address but also his enthusiasm. He did not believe they had ever met before. The boy’s clothing was of fine quality, obviously bespeaking of the son of a lord, but gave away no other clue as to his identity.

“Have we met, my lord?” he asked politely, feeling a bit off-balance.

“No,” he admitted sheepishly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t meant to be so forward. It’s just that… Father has always told us about our cousin in King’s Landing. We were both looking forward to meeting you. Well, I was,” he added. “Father obviously met you when you were born.”

“You’re Robb Stark,” Jon deduced. He should have realized sooner. The Northern heir was likely the only boy in King’s Landing his age other than himself that would visit the godswood, and it was the godswood where he had met Lord Stark.

“Yes, my prince,” Robb confirmed, seeming to gather himself together and stand a bit taller. Jon envied him his ability to do to recover so easily from a perceived misstep. “I did not mean to disturb your prayers.”

“I think I disturbed yours,” he pointed out. He still felt a little confused about Robb Stark. What had Lord Stark told him about Jon that made him want to meet him? “I did not think anyone would be here this early.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Robb replied easily. “The city is… very different than what I am used to. And I don’t think I could ever get accustomed to this heat.”

“I haven’t yet, and I’ve been here thirteen years,” Jon said with a shrug. He forced himself not to start when Robb laughed. He gave his cousin a considering look, wondering if the laugh were real. He didn’t think he had ever made someone laugh before, at least in a way that wasn’t fake or mocking.

“It must be your Northern blood,” Robb told him proudly. “You should visit Winterfell some time. I promise you it won’t be warm.”

He chuckled at that. “That might not be the best selling point,” he quipped, surprised at how easy it was to talk to Robb. He tried to remind himself that Robb was surely in on whatever scheme Lord Stark was planning, but it was hard when faced with his cousin’s earnest face.

Robb snorted. “Probably not. I should probably leave you to your prayers, my prince,” he said reluctantly. “My father is expecting me to break our fast together.”

“Of course,” he said, grateful that the other boy was leaving so soon. “Please give Lord Stark my regards.”

“I shall. Good morning, my prince,” Robb said, giving a slight bow before leaving.

Jon sunk to this knees in front of the hearttree once Robb had left, wishing the ground would swallow him whole as he remembered that the Starks almost certainly knew how pathetic he was. Seven hells, the entire _realm_ knew. How ashamed they must be that their fierce Lyanna birthed such a weakling!

He didn’t know why Lord Stark and Robb had both been so warm and open towards him, but he swore that he would find out. He might not have much choice in being used by his Targaryen relatives, but he did when it came to the Starks.


	10. Age 13, Part 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a little late, but it's extra long so I hope that makes up for it! It's not proofed so please ignore any typos. This part was SUPPOSED to be the last part of the Age 13 arc but it kinda got away from me a bit...

Jon fought not to fidget as he stood next to Rhaenys just outside the Great Hall. This entire affair might be a bit silly, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t nervous. It didn’t matter that his only part role in the ceremony was to escort Rhaenys in and take his own place. Nearly every noble house in Westeros had sent a representative to be present for the ceremony. He’d rather not be at the center of the circus.

He envied Viserys and Daenerys. They weren’t forced to parade in and _announced_ to the entire court. Jon realized, of course, that their absence from the procession was an insult, but Jon would not have minded the insult in the least.

“Calm down, brother,” Rhaenys whispered, giving him a knowing smile. She looked radiant as always, in a silk dress of deep crimson with small flames embroidered on the bodice in black thread. Jon was dressed to complement her in all black with red flames embroidered on his doublet. “No one will even be looking at you for long. All eyes will be on Aegon.”

Jon knew that wasn’t true. Not even counting the fact that Jon was entering before Aegon, he knew that everyone would be looking between him and his brother to compare them. He glanced over at Aegon, standing on the other side of Rhaenys, dressed in red pants and a black tunic with a sash crossing over his torso, the ruby in the center of his crown glinting with the sunlight streaming in from a nearby window. Jon couldn’t help but wonder how he would measure up next to him in the eyes of the nobles.

Sure, Aegon may not appear as healthy as Jon, but there was a sharpness to his eyes, an eloquence to his speech, that Jon did not have. There were some nobles who know doubt would prefer a healthy lackwit like Jon as king instead of cunning and savvy king who lacked robust.

Jon didn’t know what would be worst. The nobles wanting him to be king, or them _not_ wanting him as king. All he knew is that he most certainly did _not_ want to be king.

“Why are we bothering with theatrics in the throne room when we’re just going to move out to the gardens for the feast?” he asked instead of responding to her statement.

“Unfortunately, the biggest part of ruling is theatrics,” Aegon answered, giving Jon a smile that felt a little patronizing.

Jon very carefully did not roll his eyes. If that were true, the realm would be much better off if its rulers did a little less ruling.

The doors opened at that moment, which was Jon and Rhaenys cue to walk in. Jon stood tall and held his arm out to his sister, taking a deep breath before he he began moving forward. Rhaenys gripped his arm tightly, no doubt making sure his kept his pace steady and sedate as she warned earlier. It was a good call on her part because if Jon had his way, they would be practically jogging to the front of the hall.

He resolutely kept his eyes forward, not wanting to make eye contact with anyone. A herald startled him as they neared the front.

“All hail Jon of House Targaryen, Prince of the Seven Kingdoms and Prince of Dragonstone, and his royal sister, Prince Rhaenys of House Targaryen, Princess of the Seven Kingdoms!”

Jon was certain that there wasn’t a person in the room that hadn’t already known who they were so why bother with the formal announcement. He and Rhaenys climbed the steps to the raised dais where two chairs, more like small thrones themselves, sat on either side of the steps to the Iron Throne. He and Rhaenys separated, she moving to stand in front of the seat on what would be the king’s right hand, and he the left. Ser Oswell was standing vigilant at his side, while Ser Arthur stood next to Rhaenys. The other Kingsguard were scattered throughout the room.

Viserys was the first person he saw as he turned around to face the crowd, lilac eyes radiating hatred as he seethed. Jon remembered that his uncle had been using the title “Prince of Dragonstone” for years, and suppressed a smirk.

Daenerys was next to her brother, pouting like a petulant child. She wasn’t looking at him, though. She was glaring at Rhaenys. Considering his sister had been conducting herself as if she were queen, Jon could see how, in Daenerys’s mind, Rhaenys had usurped what she thought was her rightful place.

A blare of trumpets blasted out, and Jon really did roll his eyes at that before he was able to catch himself. Thankfully, no one caught him, as all heads were turned to watch Aegon stride in.

Well, not _all_ eyes, he realized as he surveyed the crowd. Lord Stark and his heir were still gazing at him. And from the amused smirk on Robb Stark’s face, they had noticed his noticeable exasperation with the over-the-top ceremony.

He quickly looked away from the two to focus on Aegon, who had now reached the Iron Throne and was climbing its steps. He turned slowly to face his audience.

“All hail Aegon of House Targaryen, Sixth of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm!”

The crowd applauded as Aegon slowly lowered himself onto the throne, sitting as if there weren’t jagged barbs sticking out at various angles. Jon understood the reasoning behind Aegon the Conqueror’s forging of the ugly thing, but he couldn’t help but think that he could have built a more practical throne.

Ser Oswell cleared his throat, drawing Jon’s attention. The knight glanced meaningfully at his seat. Jon cringed internally as he remembered that he and Rhaenys were supposed to sit after Aegon. He looked to Rhaenys, whose face was a careful mask but her eyes were bearing into him as if trying to draw his attention by power of will. When she saw him gazing back, she gave an almost imperceptible nod. Jon lowered himself in his seat, trying to match Rhaenys’s speed, as she had emphasized earlier that they were to sit _simultaneously_.

Judging by her serene smile, he didn’t screw it up too terribly.

The crowded quieted, and Aegon began to speak.

“My lords and ladies!” he said in a firm voice, strong enough to reach everyone in the room but not loud enough to be shouting. “I would like to thank you all for being here to welcome this new age of the Targaryen dynasty!”

There was polite applause, but it did not last for long.

“I know many of you suffered during the reign of my grandfather, and my father’s reign was too short to rectify old wrongs,” Aegon continued. “And the long regency the realm has endured has only created more problems. But I assure you, I intend to set things right.”

The applause was a bit stronger at those words, but Jon couldn’t help but wonder how many of them were real and how many were simply “theatrics.”

“I would like to start by appointing a new Small Council,” he went on, to Jon’s surprise. He hadn’t known that the new council members would be announced now. He hadn’t even known that Aegon had chosen who he wanted on the council or that they had accepted. The ceremony was supposed to be just Aegon taking the throne and the Lords Paramount and their heirs swearing fealty. 

The crowd appeared caught off guard and curious as well.

“My uncle and Lord Commander to my Kingsguard will, of course, lend his voice to my council,” Aegon began small. “And unless the Citadel decides to revoke his position, Grand Maester Pycelle will continue his service as well.” Aegon gestured towards where Pycelle was sitting at the far left end of the dais.

Jon knew that was worded carefully, with full knowledge that the king had asked the Conclave to replace Pycelle. Aegon had begun with the two appointments that he had the least control of and was definitely building the suspense.

“My uncle, Prince Oberyn, will also continue to serve on my council,” he continued. “However, he will take up the position of master of whisperers.”

The room buzzed with murmurs at that announcement. The Spider had become so infamous as the throne’s spymaster that it was hard to imagine anyone else in the position. Jon scanned the room for the plumb, bald man, but he was nowhere to be found. Apparently Varys hadn’t felt the need to attend the ceremony where he would lose his job.

Jon wondered what the man would do now. He wasn’t a lord with any lands or family. He wasn’t even native to Westeros.

“Lord Paxter Redwyne, please step forward,” Aegon called out, cutting through the whispers and silencing everyone. The man who stepped forward was thin, balding, and did not seem surprised to be singled out. The man stood proud as he came before the base of the dais and dropped to one knee.

“Your grace,” the lord intoned respectfully.

“Lord Redwyne, your fleet is renowned throughout the Seven Kingdoms. I would be honored if you would serve as my masters of ships,” Aegon declared.

“Your grace, I am honored,” Lord Paxter stated, looking up to the king. “I swear to serve you and your house honorably and be your leal servant from this day until my last day.”

“You honor me with your vow, my lord,” the king proclaimed. “I accept it and promise that your fealty and service will be duly rewarded.”

“I thank you, your grace,” he said, rising and taking a place near the front of the crowd.

Jon glanced up at his brother and was probably only one of the few to see the cunning gleam in his eyes. Suddenly, he understood. He had called Lord Redwyne, who then made an oath of loyalty that bound him to Aegon and his house without qualification and with no end date. Redwyne was in on the scheme and had set an example for those to come.

The question was, why was Aegon, who was half Martell, conspiring with a vassal of House Tyrell?

“Lord Tyrion Lannister!” Aegon called out. Jon furrowed his brow as the dwarf stepped forward. Why on earth would Aegon appoint a Lannister when the Lannisters had denied the throne aid during the rebellion? And unlike the actual rebel kingdoms, the Westerlands were never actually punished, despite the fact that Jaime Lannister had been the one to kill Aerys.

“Your grace,” the dwarf said after he had waddled forward and awkwardly went down on one knee. His odd mismatched eyes looked up at the king with dark glee, making Jon extremely glad that he was not the one sitting atop the Iron Throne.

Jon looked at the crowd to gage their reactions and saw Tywin Lannister scowling at the scene. He could only imagine that he wasn’t thrilled that his misliked son was being honored with a council position when he wanted to disown him as heir to Casterly Rock.

“My lord, I hear you have a keen intellect. I would name you master of coin,” Aegon stated. “I am sure your voice will be very helpful on the Small Council.”

“I would be honored to accept, your grace,” Lord Tyrion agreed readily with a smirk. Jon narrowed his eyes, unsure if the dwarf was in on whatever scheme his siblings were playing at. “I swear my service to your grace and vow to serve you and your house loyally and faithfully.”

“Thank you, Lord Tyrion,” the king accepted. Jon glanced up at him again, not understanding why his brother looked so satisfied. Tyrion dipped his head once more before he rose and took a place next to Lord Redwyne. “Lord Stannis Baratheon!”

Jon leaned forward ever so slightly as the brother of the late Robert Baratheon stepped forward. The brother of the man who had tried to usurp the throne from their father. There were only two council positions left unfilled—master of law and Hand. Surely Aegon did not mean to appoint this man as either?

Surely Stannis would not _accept_ and swear his service to the son of the man who killed his brother? Swearing fealty as Lord of Storms End was one thing, but serving on Aegon’s council was a different matter entirely, especially if he swore an oath as strong and vague as Lord Paxter’s and Lord Tyrion’s.

And from what Jon had seen of the man since he arrived in King’s Landing, the man had utter disdain for Aegon, Rhaenys, and anyone associated with them.

He had to hand it to Aegon. It would be very hard for Lord Baratheon to refuse the appointment after such effusive acceptances. It would also be very hard for the man to give anything less than the oaths of fealty the other two gave.

And Lord Baratheon definitely knew it, too, if the way he was visibly grinding his teeth as he knelt before the throne. “Your grace,” he said begrudgingly, knowing he had been caught in Aegon’s trap.

_Or was it Rhaenys’s trap?_ Jon wondered as he eyed his sister from the corner of his eye. She was smirking like the cat that had caught the songbird. Not that it really mattered whose scheme it was. He was pretty sure the only two people who could actually trust each other in King’s Landing were his two siblings.

“Lord Baratheon, your reputation as a just and dutiful man precedes you,” Aegon stated. “I would be honored if you would serve as my master of law.”

Stannis’s jaw tightened as he glared up at Aegon. His eyes flitted to Rhaenys at his side before settling on Jon. The Lord of Storm’s End examined him for a moment before looking back to the king and answering. “Your grace, I would be honored to serve on your council and ensure the realm prospers. I swear to serve you and your heir dutifully and honorably.”

It did not escape Jon’s notice that he said _heir_ instead of _house_. From Rhaenys’s frown, she did not either. It differed from Lord Paxter’s and Lord Tyrion’s, but not so much as to raise any eyebrows.

It didn’t sit well with Jon, though, that once again he was being used in someone else’s courtly games.

“I would be honored to accept,” Aegon said, not sounding the least bit disappointed by Stannis’s phrasing. “And since you are already before me, I will also accept your oath of fealty as Lord of Storm’s End.”

This oath from Lord Baratheon was much more polished and carefully phrased, a lot of thought obviously having gone into it. He pledged Storm’s End’s loyalty to the crown and in defense of the realm. He could not get around to pledging fealty to Aegon personally, but he made no mention of his house, again mentioning only his heir.

Jon prayed silently once again for Aegon to quickly have a son just to spite Lord Baratheon.

Prince Doran and Princess Arianne came forward next. Both pledged Sunspear and Dorne to Aegon and his house, Doran as Prince of Dorne and Arianne as his heir. Their oaths were gracious and generous, offering everything Dorne had in service to their king, to the surprise of no one.

Lord Arryn was called next, though his heir, Robert, was excused as too young. Lord Arryn’s vow of fealty was not as all-encompassing as the Martells, but nor was it as narrowly tailored as Lord Baratheon’s. Instead, Lord Arryn dutifully pledged the Eyrie and the Vale Aegon and his house for as long they reigned.

Lord Edmure Tully came forward next to pledge fealty on behalf of himself and his father. The Tully heir shifted anxiously as he knelt before Aegon, eyes bouncing between the king, Jon, Rhaenys, and someone behind him that Jon could not see. The Tullys, Jon knew, were in an interesting yet precarious situation due the marriages of Lord Hoster’s children. And while Edmure was married to a legitimized Martell, he likely could not forget that he had been their hostage for most of his life.

Lord Tywin stepped forward and knelt smoothly, managing to make kneeling seem regal. Tyrion knelt with him, looking awkward and mean next to his noble father. Tywin’s eyes glinted with cunning as he pledged Casterly Rock and the Westerlands to Aegon and House Targaryen. Though the words were sweet, Jon was left thinking that only a fool would trust them.

Lord Stark and Robb stepped forward next, and Jon fought to keep his face neutral as his uncle and cousin knelt before his brother. A tangle of emotions welled within him as he observed his mother’s family face his father’s. Not wanting to be used as a tool by either side, he wasn’t sure what he wanted to happen.

Not that anything did happen, of course. Of all the oaths given by the Lords Paramount, Lord Stark’s was by far the simplest.

“Winterfell and the North are yours, your grace,” his uncle stated solemnly. “As Lord of Winterfell, I swear by the old gods and the new that my house will serve yours faithfully.”

“And I as Heir to Winterfell, do so swear as well,” Robb said, his tone making his voice sound different to Jon’s ear than it had sounded in the godswood. “By the old gods and the new.”

Jon felt only confusion as Aegon accepted their vows. Unlike all of the other lords, the Starks had not worded their oaths to make any sort of statement or to allow them for any kind of maneuvering in the future. They were either playing a very subtle game or not playing one at all.

_Or maybe_ , he thought, _they are playing on a different board_.

Lord Tyrell came forward before Jon could think too long on the Starks. His pledge to Aegon was almost as lavish and expansive as the Martells, promising the entire bounty of Highgarden and the Reach to House Targaryen, which the king graciously accepted.

“Lord Tyrell,” Aegon continued after he had thanked the man for his oath. “Your family has long been a faithful and loyal servant to mine. In gratitude and in hopes that together we can build a more prosperous realm, I would ask for your daughter Lady Margaery’s hand in marriage.”

Jon’s eyes widened as the maiden slipped out of the crowd, dressed in a beautiful gown of green and black silk. The mixing of the Targaryen and Tyrell colors was a clear sign that the lady had been well-aware of these plans. Jon was sure, in fact, that they had been in the making for a very long time.

This was no doubt why the Queen of Thorns had quizzed him as to his loyalty to Aegon and his plans once his brother had a son for an heir.

“Your grace, you honor my daughter and my house,” Lord Mace answered, going a bit overboard in Jon’s opinion as he bowed deeply at the waist and nearly touched the ground with the stupid little flurry he did with his hand. “It will be a joyous day when our houses are united.”

“I see no reason to delay that day,” Aegon responded, which the lord had evidently not been expecting. “My Hand, Princess Rhaenys, has already seen to all the arrangements. The High Septon is expecting us in the Sept of Baelor. We shall process over immediately and then partake in the wedding feast that my sister has prepared.”

While Jon did not miss that Aegon had casually named Rhaenys as his Hand, the rest of the crowd did as they realized that they were to be attendees at a surprise royal wedding.

Lord Tyrell sputtered, so caught off guard that he could not seem to string his thoughts together. “Y-your grace,” he finally managed to get out. “My daughter is not ready! She—she hasn’t prayed to the Maiden or sewn her maiden’s cloak or—”

“My father is mistaken, your grace,” the lady herself cut in smoothly, gracefully settling on her knees in front of the king. “The princess was kind enough to give me some advance warning as to your proposal, and I have prayed to the Maiden every day since for her blessings if we were to wed. As for my maiden’s cloak, my cousins and I have worked tirelessly to ensure it would be ready for whenever the moment came.”

“The moment has come, my lady,” Aegon declared, standing and descending from the throne. Jon stood after receiving a meaningful look from Rhaenys, and before he really understood what was happening, Rhaenys was taking him by the arm, and they were following Aegon and Margaery out of the Great Hall, through the grand entrance hall, and into the courtyard, where horses were already saddled and waiting for them.

The entire affair was strange and surreal, and Jon had a hard time believing that this was actually happening and not just some bizarre dream. Then they were exiting the keep, Aegon and Margaery were riding together before him on a dark destrier, while Rhaenys rode at his side on her own sand steed. Jon himself was on Peanut, the old familiar tan palfrey he had ridden since he was old enough to ride. All the nobles that were in the Great Hall trailed after them, most still confused over what was happening. Jon knew that, if given more time to consider it, some would have protested having to walk to the sept.

Gold cloaks lined the streets as they left, keeping the curious smallfolk from getting _too_ near the royal procession. As they rode on, cheers of “King Aegon” and “Lady Margaery” were thrown their way. Jon hadn’t realized that Margaery had endured herself to the smallfolk, but what was even more surprising were the many shouts of “Prince Jon” that he caught.

He smiled tentatively at the crowd, raising his hand in greeting as that drew more cries of his name. He was bewildered by the amount of affection these people who had never met him seemed to have for him.

When they reached the sept and had dismounted and entered, Rhaenys left his side and went to Margaery, the two of them disappearing through a door in the atrium of the sept. Jon was left alone with Aegon for the first time all day, the throng of nobles following them having just now reached the courtyard of the sept.

The king smirked at him. “Not exactly what you were expecting, little brother? Come on. I want you at my side when I marry my bride.”

Jon examined him out of the side of his eye as they walked into the main sanctuary and towards where the High Septon was awaiting them at the altar between the statues of the Father and the Mother.

“Why are you doing this?” Jon asked finally, not understanding any of what was happening, from the sudden naming of the Small Council members earlier to the rush towards the marriage altar that was occurring now.

“For the good of the realm,” he replied as if it were obvious. “The sooner I am wed and produce an heir, the sooner the realm will be stable and at peace.”

Jon didn’t know if Aegon was lying to him or himself. While he certainly believed that Aegon, Rhaenys, and the Martells were eager for an heir that wasn’t Jon, he didn’t think that would have driven Aegon to rush to into matrimony with a girl from the house his mother’s family had been famously feuding with for centuries.

Jon had to admit, though, that Aegon and Rhaenys would have things fairly neatly tied up after the wedding. If you counted Jon, they would be related by blood or marriage to the Martells, Tyrells, Lannisters, Tullys, and Starks. Not that being related to the crown had stopped Robert Baratheon from rising in rebellion.

The wedding came together quickly as nobles filtered into the sept and filled the seats. While everyone was still getting settled, Rhaenys marched up to Jon and thrust a black velvet cloak emblazoned a red three-headed dragon. She gave him a look before settling into a seat at the front next to Queen Elia.

Lady Olenna slipped in right before Margaery entered on her father’s arm. The Queen of Thorns had definitely been in on the plans, Jon was sure, as she smiled in satisfaction as her granddaughter walked past her, dressed in a gown of ivory silk with a pale green cloak with gold trim. As she reached Aegon, Jon could see the golden roses stitched throughout her gown and cloak.

Jon mostly tuned out the vows, ignoring the crowd to examine the sept surreptitiously. It had been many years since he had entered the sept. He had forgotten how cold it felt despite its grandness. It was beautiful, yes, but he didn’t feel drawn spiritually to this place when compared to the godswood.

He was aware enough of the ceremony to step forward with the cloak at the right time, presenting it to Aegon once his brother had given Lord Tyrell Margaery’s maiden cloak. He clapped along with the crowd as the High Septon declared the couple married.

Flowers were thrown at Aegon and Margaery as the entire party processed back to the Red Keep, the crowd cheering merrily as they greeted their new queen.

The feast was not held in the garden, like Jon had been told. Instead, Rhaenys had apparently had the servants set it up in the Great Hall while they were at the sept. The Great Hall was really the better place to have it, Jon decided as he took a seat at the head table next to Rhaenys. There would be no fewer flies to battle for the food, and the music would sound much better within the walls of the hall.

He just wished somebody could have _told_ him what was being planned. Did they not trust him? It made no sense to him why the wedding was kept secret from even the father of the bride, but that didn’t mean he would have told anyone or tried to sabotage it.

“I hope you accomplished whatever it was that was your aim,” Jon muttered bitterly once the feast was in full swing, pitching his voice so that only his sister could hear.

Rhaenys smiled at him. “I know the theatrics seem pointless to you, little brother,” she said, not unkindly. “But you’ll find that the lords and ladies at court will be so distracted by Aegon’s little wedding stunt that they’ll forget about half the petty complaints they have. You’d be amazing at how well gossip and scandal is at diverting attention away from political grievances.”

Jon scowled. “That’s a horrible way to govern. The problems of the people do not just go away because you manage to make them forget about them for a few nights.”

She scoffed and shook her head. “Most of those problems are only problems because people _can’t_ forget about them. The real problems will of course be addressed at a later date.”

Her flippant attitude did not inspire Jon’s confidence in her words. He was beginning to think that Aegon’s idea of a peaceful reign was one where people only _appeared_ to get along.

One thing was for sure, though. The Greyjoy situation would put that vapid idea of harmony to the test.

Once the dancing started up, Rhaenys forced him to dance with her. Once he handed her off to Prince Oberyn, Princess Arianne snatched him up for a dance as well. He forced himself not to cringe at her sharp smile.

“You know, I did not expect you to be so much handsomer than your brother,” she remarked, batting her eyelashes in a way that was certainly meant to be flirtatious but felt threatening to Jon.

“I thank you for the compliment,” he replied, managing to keep his composure. “I’m sure the new queen has no complaints.”

Arianne gave an unladylike snort. “Of course not, she’s queen.”

Jon gave a begrudging chuckle at that. “She gets a crown and hopefully Aegon gets an heir. Everyone’s happy.”

“Well, not _everyone_ ,” she said slyly as the dance ended.

Jon escaped the dance floor after they broke apart, knowing that there were dozens of ladies who would no doubt dig their claws in if he stayed much longer. He caught Ser Oswell’s eye and nodded towards the door, slipping out quietly and hoping it wouldn’t cause too much of stir.

Ser Oswell met him in the hallway. “You’ll miss the bedding,” the knight commented.

“Someone else can make sure their marriage is consummated,” he said dryly. “This day has been eventful enough for me.”

But unfortunately the day wasn’t done with its surprises, which he found out when he reached his chambers and Varys was waiting for him in his solar.

Ser Oswell caught sight of him as soon as Jon opened the door, pushing him behind him and gripping the hilt of his sword. “What are you doing in the prince’s chambers?”

“I mean the prince no harm, ser knight,” Varys said in a soft voice, standing and bowing low. “But I would like a moment in private with Prince Jon.”

“No,” the knight answered curtly.

Jon, though, was curious. Besides, if Varys wanted to kill him, he wouldn’t do it after having a witness see them alone together. “It’s fine, Ser Oswell. Please wait outside.”

Oswell shot a glare at Varys but nodded to Jon and left. Varys smiled as the door shut behind him. “He’s a very protective sort,” he stated. “But you never can tell with Kingsguard. Sometimes their loyalty to their king overrides all other confidences.”

Jon did not necessarily need the reminder that his guard was likely more loyal to his brother than him. “I assume you want something?”

“No, I want to give you something,” Varys said, stepping aside and gesturing to the desk behind him. Jon’s eyes widened as he saw what was lying on the desk.

It was a hand-and-a-half sword, its scabbard made of a fine leather. The cross guard was two roaring dragon heads, their necks meeting where the shining black grip began, with the hilt topped by a large red ruby.

“A replica of Blackfyre?” Jon asked, stunned that Varys would gift him with a blade. Did Varys believe that he would need one soon? He approached the desk and tentatively picked it up.

“Not a replica, my prince.”

“What?” Jon jerked his head up. “Blackfyre was lost when Bittersteel went into exile in Essos.”

Varys nodded towards the sword. “See for yourself.”

Jon drew the blade slowly from the scabbard, frowning as he examined the metal, its dark grey ripples giving it away. Valyrian steel. He narrowed his eyes at Varys. “Even if this _is_ Blackfyre and not some other Valyrian steel bastard sword with a new hilt, why give it to me? This is the blade of Targaryen kings. It should go to Aegon.”

“The king is no great swordsman and never will be,” he responded with a careless shrug. “And you have the makings of a great warrior. Why should you not have it?”

Jon twisted his mouth in disdain. “That is the same reasoning Aegon the Unworthy used when he gave Blackfyre to Daemon Blackfyre and sparked the first Blackfyre Rebellion.”

Varys smirked. “The difference, my prince, is that Daemon was not the king’s heir, Daeron II was. And whether you believe it or not, the blade is your family’s ancestral sword. It took my contacts in Essos quite a long time to track it down and recover it for your family, but I have. Just in time to pass it off to you, my prince, before we both leave King’s Landing.”

If Varys expected Jon to be surprised at the fact that there were plans to ship him away from the capital, then he was disappointed.

“Whether the sword is Blackfyre or not, it is still a fine blade,” he said, putting it back in its sheath and placing it back on the table. “I thank you, my lord.”

“Oh, I’m afraid I’m no lord, my prince,” Varys told him sadly. “Not anymore. But I shall find other ways to expend my time. That is not your concern, of course. I will bid you good night.”

With a final bow, he exited the room. He had not been gone but a moment, though, before Ser Oswell entered with a scowl. “I do not trust that man.”

Jon snorted. “No one sane ever has,” he retorted but stepping in front of his desk so that the sword was not readily visible. “I am whole and hale, though, so there’s nothing to worry about.”

The knight nodded. “I shall be here if you need me.”

Jon turned back to the sword once Oswell had gone. It really _was_ a beautiful weapon, though that wasn’t enough to convince him it was Blackfyre. But who would give up a Valyrian blade just to trick _him_ into believing it were Blackfyre? What was the point?

Daemon Blackfyre and Daeron Targaryen passed through his mind again, and the rebellion that was sparked by a sword. Was Varys trying to sow seeds of animosity between him and Aegon?

He scowled and turned away from the sword, marching into his bedchamber without giving it another glance. He purposefully dressed for bed and put the sword from his mind. He would tell Aegon about it in the morning, he decided, and hand it over to him if his brother wished.

He would be no Daemon Blackfyre.


	11. Age 13, Part 7

Jon rose early the next morning and dressed quickly, resolved to get the whole business with the sword over and done with. Whatever Varys’s game was, he would not be part of it. He was tired of being played with.

He paused as he went to grab Blackfyre though. Perhaps it was best to leave it in his chambers for now. Taking a sword into the king’s personal chambers was probably not something that was allowed. Whatever Kingsguard was standing guard would probably take it and present it to Aegon, making a scene that really wasn’t warranted. It was better if Jon was able to explain how it came into his possession before his family’s ancestral sword was thrust under Aegon’s nose.

Ser Oswell did not seem surprised when he exited his chambers, only standing to attention and moving to follow him.

“There’s no need, Ser,” Jon told him, holding up his hand when the knight went to protest. He smiled. “I’m only going down to the king’s chambers. You can see the door from here. I’d rather you keep an eye on my chambers.” If his door was left unguarded, there’s no telling which of his relatives would just barge in and see Blackfyre lying on his desk. Rhaenys and Daenerys both had already shown a lack of regard for his privacy.

His guard seemed a bit confused at the request, but nodded his head in agreement. Jon was glad he didn’t have to explain. He turned and walked to the end of the corridor where Aegon’s chambers were. Ser Arthur was standing guard and gave him a kind smile.

“His grace is likely not dressed yet, my prince,” the Kingsguard told him. “He returned rather late from his wedding bed. He hasn’t even had his morning meal brought up yet.”

It hadn’t even occurred to Jon that Aegon may have slept in the new queen’s chambers. It certainly didn’t surprise him that he didn’t, though. “Could you see if he is awake, Ser Arthur? It’s very important that I speak with him.”

“Of course, my prince,” the knight replied with a slight bow before he entered the king’s chambers and left Jon in the corridor. Jon very determinedly did not fidget as he was waiting. Not only could Ser Oswell see him, but so could the white knights standing outside of Rhaenys and Daenerys’s chambers at the end of the corridor. Given that the Kingsguard’s first loyalty was to the _king_ , he didn’t want any of them to tell Aegon that he was acting suspiciously.

Thankfully, Ser Arthur did not take long in returning. “His grace is dressing, my prince, but asked me to have you wait in his solar,” he said, waving Jon in.

Aegon’s solar was grander than his. Jon supposed that made sense, seeing as these were the king’s chambers. What he hadn’t expected was how meticulously decorated it was, with carpets and hangings and various knickknacks placed about the room. Aegon hadn’t been here long, but it certainly hadn’t kept him from making himself comfortable.

Jon’s eyes were drawn to the mantle, where, situated in a place of honor in the center, was a large scarlet oval stone. He crept closer, wondering what it was about the stone that was so fascinating. He discovered as he got a better look that it wasn’t just scarlet. The red color was shot through with veins of bright orange that glowed like flame when the morning sun hit it. The surface of the stone wasn’t smooth as Jon had thought. Instead, it seemed to be scaled…

Jon suddenly knew what the stone was and felt like an idiot for not realizing it sooner. A dragon egg. Where had Aegon gotten a dragon egg?

“Beautiful isn’t it?” Aegon’s voice startled him, but he didn’t turn around. He was too mesmerized by the egg.

“It is,” he agreed in awe. He turned towards his brother. “Where did you get it?”

“It’s just my crib egg,” he replied dismissively, moving to sit at his desk and missing Jon’s frown at the words. “All Targaryens have them.”

Jon couldn’t help but be rankled by Aegon’s blasé tone and the implication of his words. He turned back to the egg to hide his scowl. All Targaryens had one, but Jon didn’t. Was it because no one believed he was a true Targaryen?

His mind flashed to the reason he was here. Aegon would take Blackfyre from him. Never mind that Aegon was too feeble to even wield it, Jon thought bitterly. No, because Jon was not a _real_ Targaryen, he’d never be allowed to keep their ancestral sword.

“What was so urgent that you had to see me?” Aegon asked, breaking through his angry thoughts.

Despite his anger, it was on the tip of Jon’s tongue to tell his brother about Blackfyre, but the dragon egg glinted in the corner of his eye. Unable to curb his resentment, he made a split second decision and raked his mind for a different reason to be there.

“I wanted to ask you what your plans for me were before the council,” he lied, hoping he sounded convincing. “I didn’t want to be caught off guard the way Mace Tyrell was yesterday.”

Aegon scoffed. “Mace Tyrell spent the rebellion feasting in front of Storm’s End instead of being there for our father when he was wounded. He should be lucky that a little embarrassment is the only price he has had to pay.”

Jon really couldn’t argue against that, and honestly couldn’t care less about Mace Tyrell’s humiliation in that moment. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“What makes you think I have some secret plan for you?” he asked, evading once more to Jon’s annoyance. Even if it wasn’t the real reason he had come, he still deserved to know what was planned for his own life.

“Just because I don’t play the games you and Rhaenys play does not mean that I am unaware of them,” Jon retorted coldly. “If you want to move me about like a cyvasse piece, I at least deserve to know where I’m being moved.”

Aegon gave him a considering look. The silence stretched on between them and Jon felt doubt creep into his mind. Maybe he had been a little to brash in his speech. His brother could decide to change whatever plans he had for Jon for the worse.

“Winterfell,” Aegon said abruptly. 

“What?”

His brother smirked. “My plans for you. I’m sending you to Winterfell with Lord Stark.”

Jon blinked in confusion. He hadn’t been expecting Aegon to answer at all, let alone for _that_ to be the answer. “Winterfell? My mother’s home?”

“You don’t sound pleased,” Aegon said in bemusement. “Rhaenys was sure you would like to get to know your mother’s family. Lord Stark hasn’t been told yet so if you’d rather go elsewhere…”

“No,” he said quickly, not missing the fact that he was going to be sent away from King’s Landing no matter what. Not that he really cared. He held no fond memories of King’s Landing. “No, I wouldn’t mind going to Winterfell.”

It beat Dorne, at least. His Stark relatives confused him, but Lord Stark and Robb Stark had been nothing but kind to him even if they were plotting something he couldn’t divine yet. And a colder climate definitely had its appeal.

“Well, I am glad that’s settled. Now, if you would excuse me, I do have some important matters to take care of before meeting with the Lords Paramount,” Aegon said, waving him off in obvious dismissal.

Jon didn’t care to stick around any longer anyway. Panic was already beginning to seep in as he exited the hall and darted back to his chambers. Blackfyre was still lying accusingly on his desk.

His resentment might have kept him from telling Aegon about the sword, but now that he had made the decision to keep Blackfyre, he was faced with the problem of what to _do_ with it.

He couldn’t keep it in his chambers. Someone was bound to discover it and tell Aegon or Rhaenys about it. They would think he was plotting against them if they knew he had been gifted the sword that had sparked the Blackfyre Rebellions.

Gods, he should have just _told_ Aegon about Blackfyre. Why did he let himself get worked up over some stupid dragon egg? Who cared if he didn’t have one? Who cared if his family didn’t think he was true Targaryen? He didn’t even _like_ any of them! Why would he care if they thought he wasn’t one of them?

Unable to look at the sword any longer, he grabbed it and marched into his bedchamber, glancing around for a place to hide it. His bed was out. The servants poked around it too often when they were changing his sheets. Without any better idea, he buried the sword under a stack of trousers in the bottom drawer of his bureau. It was hardly a clever hiding spot, but no one would be looking there unless they were actively searching his room. And hopefully, his siblings didn’t think his room was searched multiple times.

He went back into his solar and attempted to distract himself from his ancestral sword with a book on the economics of the Free Cities, but it didn’t work. Guilt and worry knotted together in his stomach. The worry was understandable, but he didn’t know why he was feeling _guilty_. He had done nothing wrong. So what if he had kept Blackfyre a secret from Aegon? Aegon kept enough things secret from _him_ that it was only fair.

Giving up on his distraction, he tossed the book to the side and got to his feet. Ser Oswell must not have expected him to leave his chambers again so quickly, because it took the white knight a moment to realize Jon was leaving and to fall in step behind him.

Jon wished that he could confide in his protector about the sword and his decision to keep it from Aegon. He wished he could confide in _anyone_ , really. The problem was that he couldn’t trust anyone in King’s Landing to keep his secrets. Not even Ser Oswell, whose first loyalty as a Kingsguard was to the _king_.

The gods were the only ones he could confide in, he thought as they reached the godswood. Too bad they couldn’t give any advice in return.

Leaving Ser Oswell at the entrance of the wood, Jon made his way to the heattree and nearly groaned at the sight of the red-headed boy kneeling there. This was far too reminiscence of the last time he visited the godswood to be a coincidence. The question was, why was Robb Stark lying in wait for him?

Robb must have heard him approach because he stood and turned around, his face lighting up when he saw him. Though he didn’t understand it, Jon was sure that Robb’s smile was true, mostly because he had never seen anyone fake that much enthusiasm that well.

“My prince,” he greeted brightly, giving Jon a shallow bow. “I was hoping you would be here.”

Jon furrowed his brow. “Why? What do you want from me?”

Robb’s grin dimmed. “I don’t want anything _from_ you, my prince,” he said, an odd expression on his face despite the fact that his lips remained curved upwards in a smile. “We plan to leave tomorrow and I just… wanted a chance to get to know you. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t presume and Father told me to give you your space—”

“No, I don’t mind,” Jon interrupted. “You’re leaving tomorrow?”

He didn’t know why that disappointed him. If Aegon were sending him to Winterfell, he would be going with the Starks and have plenty of time to get to know his mother’s family. And it certainly wasn’t a reluctance to leave King’s Landing.

Maybe it was because, despite his uncle’s initial greeting, he hadn’t bothered to seek Jon out afterwards and now he was rushing back home to the North as soon as his duties to the king were done. After all, the Starks didn’t know that he was going to Winterfell with them.

“Father doesn’t particularly care for the capital,” Robb replied. “I think he’s lost too many people here.”

Jon nodded at that, feeling awful that he had never even thought about the kin who had met tragic ends in Red Keep. Their ghosts did not haunt him because he had only really known of them in an abstract sense, but he was sure Lord Stark could see the specters of his father and brother in the Great Hall where they met their end at Jon’s mad grandfather’s hands.

“I don’t care for it much either,” Jon said, giving a rueful shrug. “I guess it doesn’t matter, though, since I will be leaving soon.”

His cousin perked up at that. “Really? Where will you go?”

“My brother means for me to go North with you and your father to Winterfell,” he answered. “At least that’s what he told me this morning. And he hasn’t asked your father if I would be welcome.”

“Of course you’d be welcome!” Robb exclaimed eagerly. “Father’s main objective in the council today is to get you back and bring you home!”

Jon didn’t believe for a second that Ned Stark’s first priority in the council that afternoon had anything to do with him, but he believed that Robb thought that it was true. He was also beginning to believe that maybe _Robb_ had no other motivation in seeking out his company than simply wanting his companionship.

It wasn’t easy to trust that the other boy had no ulterior motive, but Jon couldn’t help but want it to be true.

“Have you broken your fast yet?” Jon asked on a whim, feeling a bit reckless. What he was about to do might strain whatever kinship Robb felt for him, but he had wanted someone to confide in. “Would you care to join me in my solar?”

Jon hadn’t thought that Robb’s smile could get any brighter. “I would like that, my prince.”

“Jon, please,” he said, hoping he wasn’t making a mistake. The last person he had told to call him by name had been Loras, and he still wasn’t sure about the Tyrell squire. “We are family.”

“Jon then, but only if you call me Robb.”

Ser Oswell raised an eyebrow when he walked out with Robb, but followed them to Maegor’s Holdfast without a word. Jon told a passing servant to have food brought up before leading Robb into his chambers.

Robb picked up the book on the settee that he had thrown to the side earlier. “A Study of Essosian Economics. Sounds riveting,” he teased with a good-natured smirk.

Jon laughed. “It’s actually more interesting than you think, but that’s mostly because a good portion of their economy is related to sellsword companies,” he admitted.

“I must admit that our maester hasn’t had me studying much about Essos,” Robb said with a shrug.

“Neither has mine,” he replied. “But I usually read whenever I’m banned from the training yard to get some rest and when I don’t feel like roaming aimlessly around the keep.” Jon wasn’t a great reader, and it was far from his favorite pastime, but it beat sitting around his chambers doing nothing, which was his only alternative some days, particularly those when Viserys was in a particularly foul mood.

Thankfully, their meal was brought in before Robb could comment on his pathetic little life that drove him to read about the economies of foreign lands just to pass the time.

Since he had never played host before, Jon wasn’t quite sure how to get the conversation started. He knew enough to know that he shouldn’t just blurt out anything about Blackfyre, even if he was burning to tell _someone_ about the sword.

“So tell me about my other cousins,” he settled on finally. Family was what connected them. That was a safe place to start.

Robb smiled fondly as his eyes took on an almost faraway look for a moment. “Well,” he began, focusing back on Jon. “There are five of us. All of us but Arya inherited Mother’s red hair and blue eyes. Arya has dark hair and grey eyes like you and Father.”

“Five!” Jon exclaimed, eyes widening as he imagined growing up with four siblings. “Do you all get along?”

“Of course we do!” he answered as if it were obvious. Then he frowned and looked a bit thoughtful. “Well, sometimes Sansa and Arya get mad at each other, but they still mostly get along. Rickon’s still a baby, really, and Bran gets along with everyone. There’s really no reason for us _not_ to get along. I mean, we’re family.”

“I don’t really get along with my family,” Jon said sadly without thinking. He flushed when Robb frowned at him. “I mean my Targaryen family. Maybe it’s because they’re all older and we didn’t really grow up together. I just met my siblings. The one I’ve known the longest is Viserys and I don’t think anyone gets along with him.”

Robb snorted. “Is it true he’s as mad as the Mad King?” he asked curiously. “That’s what everyone says.”

“I don’t know. They say Aerys didn’t start going mad until later in life. Viserys seems to be worse,” he commented, remembering the many times his uncle’s crazed eyes had looked at him with vitriolic hate.

“Well, you’ll get along with all of us, I’m sure of it,” his cousin assured him with a proud smile. “I for one am very glad you are coming to Winterfell. There’s no boys of an age with me there. And Sansa and Arya are the siblings closest to me in age. I love them but girls are different.”

Jon nodded sagely. Girls definitely were different. And _scary_ , if his experience with the ladies at court was anything to go on.

They continued eating in mostly silence for a bit, exchanging only the occasional word or two, but it never felt awkward to him. Robb had such an easy-going nature that it was almost impossible to feel uncomfortable around him. 

It probably said something about _Jon_ that he found the comfortable atmosphere to be a little _uncomfortable_. He had only ever shared meals with people who gazed at him with a critical eye, either waiting for him to do something wrong or sizing him up as a political tool. This situation was entirely unfamiliar to him and made him feel unbalanced.

That did not deter him, though, from working up his courage and bringing up the topic he had invited Robb here to speak about after they had both eaten their fill.

“Robb, I know we’ve only just met, but can I ask for your advice on something?” Jon asked, feeling a bit ridiculous in phrasing it so casually, as if he were about to ask Robb’s advice on a new doublet. “It’s sort of a secret,” he added, wincing at his own words. “I’d really not like it to further than you.”

“Of course!” came the ready reply from his cousin. He held Jon’s gaze seriously. “I swear I will keep your confidences, Jon. If Father had had his way, we would have grown up as close as brothers. I would never betray you.”

Something eased within him at the solemn words, heartened by both the sentiment and by the fact that Robb seemed to understand that Jon was about to convey something very serious to him.

“Thank you,” he murmured, trying to figure out where to begin. He chewed on the inside of his lip for a moment before he stood. “I think it’s better if I show you first.”

He walked into his bedchamber with Robb trailing after him and made his way to his bureau. Opening the bottom draw, he withdrew Blackfyre from its hiding spot and held it out to show his cousin.

Robb studied the blade in confusion for a moment before his eyes widened. “Is this…?” he asked breathless, hands hovering reverently the hilt and scabbard.

“Blackfyre,” Jon confirmed grimly. His tone caused Robb to look up in puzzlement. “Aegon doesn’t know that I have it. Varys gave it to me last night. Gods know why. Either to get back at Aegon for removing him from his position or to ingratiate himself to me in case I become king. Or maybe he wants to spark a conflict between us.”

“What are you going to do?” he asked, brow furrowed in concern.

“I don’t know,” Jon muttered, looking down at the sword in his hands as his arms drooped a bit. “I didn’t want to play Varys’s game. I was going to tell Aegon about the sword this morning, but I got angry and changed my mind. I know he’ll take it from me if I tell him about it. I don’t think any of them consider me a true Targaryen so they won’t want me to have our family’s sword.”

“But you _are_ a true Targaryen!” Robb insisted. “You’re King Rhaegar’s second son and the heir to the Iron Throne. Who else has a better claim to the sword?”

He rolled his eyes. “Aegon.”

“Your brother would probably break his arm trying to lift the damn thing,” he scoffed before cringing. “Not that I meant to speak ill of his grace…”

Jon snorted. “You don’t have to worry about me getting angry on Aegon’s behalf.”

“I only meant that you have as much of a claim to the sword as anyone else who could actually use it as more than a paperweight,” Robb explained regardless.

“Is it… treasonous to keep it?” he asked hesitantly, tightening his grip on the sword. He had to admit that he definitely _wanted_ to keep it. Despite what Varys might have intended in giving it to him, it was still his family’s sword, the sword of Aegon the Conquerer. He’d be a fool to just give it up without a fight.

“There’s no law that says Blackfyre belongs to the king,” his cousin reasoned, giving Jon a mischievous smirk. 

“Well, Daemon Blackfyre did start a war over the idea that Blackfyre _did_ belong to the king,” Jon remarked ruefully. “I don’t want anyone to think I plan on doing the same.”

Robb shrugged. “People will believe what they want to believe. If you want to keep the sword, then keep it.”

“It doesn’t matter what I want,” he said with a sigh. “Aegon and Rhaenys will likely have my luggage searched prior to my leaving. They’ll find it and take it.”

“Not if it’s not in _your_ luggage,” Robb replied meaningfully, a grin creeping over his face. “There are other people with luggage going to Winterfell.”

Jon whipped his head up to stare at him in shock. “You’d hide it in _your_ luggage?” he asked. “If it’s found, though…”

He waved his hand dismissively. “It won’t be found. No one would bother searching my luggage. Even if they wanted to, they wouldn’t have time to find the sword if I hide it there tonight. Not when we leave first thing in the morning.”

“It’s still a lot to ask of you,” he said.

“No, it’s not!” Robb assured eagerly. “I’d do it for any of my brothers and sisters. I actually _have_ done it for Arya when she wanted to sneak a bow and arrow on one of our visits to Castle Cerwyn. Let me help you with this, Jon.”

He still wasn’t certain. For one, it was a bigger risk than Robb was making it out to be. If Blackfyre was found in the hands of the Starks, who had previously rebelled against the throne and whose close relation was next in line for the throne, it would be at least scandalous even if they weren’t accused of treason. For another, Jon might not even _go_ to Winterfell. It wasn’t as if Aegon had always been truthful to him. He might have lied about his plans for Jon.

Still, Robb was right in that it would be unlikely for his luggage to be searched. If anything, Rhaenys and Aegon would likely have their belongings looked through during the council as they would be less watched then.

And of course, the whole plan hinged on him trusting that Robb would not betray him…

“We’d have to smuggle it to your chambers tonight,” Jon said finally, not quite believing that he was doing this and hoping he was making the right decision. “Could you meet me in the godswood during the hour of the wolf?”

Robb grinned. “That’s a fitting time,” he stated, reaching out and clapping Jon on the shoulder. “Because even if your siblings don’t think you’re a true Targaryen, I know you’re a true Stark."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, well that was a super cheesy way to end this chapter and I apologize, but they are 13 year old boys. They can be cheesy, I guess. Also, this does NOT end age 13 as I had planned because this chapter ran away from me and I wasn't able to fit in the council! The next one SHOULD be the last at this age.
> 
> For all of you asking, I'm still trying to decide if I want to include any or all of the supernatural elements from the books/show (direwolves, dragons, ice zombies). I know a lot of you have been wondering about Ghost and whether Jon'll get a dragon, but I feel like those elements can't be added unless the Others are added too, and I'm not sure about including them yet.
> 
> Finally, I will start adding some other POVs, probably in the next chapter. They won't dominate because this is still going to be very Jon centric, but I think it's important to the story for there to be a glimpse every now and again at things happening at least in King's Landing.


	12. Age 13, Part 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long time coming. Sorry it took me so long to write! Also, you'll notice a couple of shifts in POV in this chapter. It won't happen often, but the story will deviate a bit from Jon's POV.

He pressed his lips together in tight line to keep from scowling at the display before him. Did the boy king really think that he could fool them into believing Prince Jon was his puppet just by dressing him up in matching Targaryen regalia?

Ignoring Tywin Lannister’s long-winded and sanctimonious grievances, Stannis’s eyes drifted to where Ned Stark was sitting, nearly directly across from the king at the ridiculous round table that had been placed in the Great Hall. To demonstrate that they were all “equal,” Aegon had announced magnanimously when they arrived for the council. It had taken all of his willpower to not scoff at the notion.

As long as the Dornish king held the Iron Throne, the former rebel lords would never be seen as “equal.” The Rebellion had left too much bad blood between the two factions to ever heal.

Stark didn’t see it that way though. The bloody northman had forgotten what Robert, who he had called his dearest friend, had _died_ for. Stannis hadn’t forgotten. Hadn’t forgotten starving inside Storm’s End while Mace Tyrell feasted outside. Hadn’t forgotten his younger brother’s cries of hunger. Hadn’t forgotten the Targaryens’ madness that had led to the kidnapping of Robert’s betrothed and the call for both Ned and Robert’s heads.

And now Ned Stark was content to let bygones be bygones because his empty-headed sister had fallen for her kidnapper and married him?

Serra and Maester Cressen had both counseled him to be more understanding. Though Connington had attempted to keep the information under wraps, the entire realm had long been aware that Prince Jon was being held a hostage to keep the Lord of Winterfell in check. Even the smallfolk were outraged at the idea of Connington, an up-jumped lord that should have been _his_ bannerman and not Hand and Regent, would dare threaten the life of the Prince of Dragonstone.

It was absurd to believe that Connington would have actually killed Rhaegar’s youngest son, but even Stannis had to admit that honorable Ned Stark would not risk the life of his sister’s son if there was even the slightest chance that Connington would follow through on his threat.

When the rumors began pouring out of King’s Landing of the prince’s mistreatment, Stannis was sure that there would be war and had discreetly informed his most loyal bannermen to be ready, but the North did not rise.

Ned Stark was a cautious craven, Stannis had decided. He wondered if the man would summon the nerve to make his play now or wait long enough for Aegon to have an heir and Jon suffered an unfortunate accident.

“Lord Lannister,” Princess Rhaenys interrupted abruptly, giving the lion lord a deceptively sweet smile. “I am not sure what exactly it is you want from my brother. You speak of naming my new good-nephew as your heir, but he is the son of your daughter. Surely your son and the king’s new Master of Coin is an adequate heir?”

Tywin’s green eyes were calculating as he considered his answer. Stannis might have enjoyed the position the Westerlands lord was currently placed by Rhaenys’s question if he didn’t despise her and her brother so much.

“It is because his grace has named Tyrion his Master of Coin that the request is being made, princess,” he answered smoothly, not sparing a glance at where his son was seated between Paxter Redwyne and Oberyn Martell. “With his duties to the king in King’s Landing, I will not have the time to groom him to take over our ancestral seat. Tommen, however, can be fostered at Casterly Rock and I can oversee his education directly.”

“It seems to me that geography is no reason to disinherit Lord Tyrion,” Aegon commented mildly. “I was not raised in King’s Landing and yet this is my seat of power. And correct me if I am wrong, but Lord Tyrion _was_ raised and educated at Casterly Rock. Surely that is a sufficient foundation to succeed you.”

Stannis had to wonder how lenient Connington was with Lannister for him to believe that his transparent excuses would be accepted at face-value by King Aegon. The Martells were a lot of things, but they were not simple-minded.

“Of course, the succession of Casterly Rock is within your discretion as a matter of right,” Rhaenys added smoothly. Stannis didn’t think she was fooling anyone at the table with her soft and sweet contrast to her hard and stern king, but perhaps he was wrong. Mace Tyrell looked stupid enough to eat it up.

“But whatever you decide, the crown cannot validate your bypassing of your lawful heir,” she continued with a regretful smile. “The laws of succession of each house have been settled for over a century. His grace could no more bless your decision to pass over your son than he could name me his heir and pass over my brother and uncle.”

Stannis was certain that everyone at the table sat up a little straighter at her bold words, which, judging by her sharp eyes, was exactly the reaction she had intended. Not that her words held any real truth. Only a simpleton would believe that Aegon couldn’t disinherit Jon or Viserys if he wanted, though such an action would probably spark a war if the king died without a son. What Stannis couldn't decide, though, was whether she meant her words to be in support of Prince Jon as Aegon’s heir presumptive, or as a ploy to make the lords believe that she and Aegon _did_ support Jon as heir.

He resisted the urge to massage his temples. These courtly games were giving him a headache.

He glanced at Stark once more and was surprised to see fury in his eyes, though he wondered if any of them, save Jon Arryn, could recognize the ice in his gaze for what it was. He, apparently, did not believe Rhaenys’s words to be in support of Jon.

Stannis furrowed his brow, though, as he realized that Ned wasn’t looking at Rhaenys, or even Aegon, but at Jon. He followed Stark’s gaze and understood.

Jon Targaryen had done a surprisingly good job at donning a politely diplomatic face when forced to appear at his brother’s side. To his credit, the prince’s features had not moved from his impassive mask. His eyes, though, bespoke of a horrible understanding mixed with anger and fear as he all but glared at his sister.

Stannis was not sure what the prince had realized, but whatever it was, he was satisfied that the boy wasn’t an idiot. An idiot on the Iron Throne would do no one any good.

He decided now was the best time to steer the discussion in a different direction.

“While I am sure we are all fascinated by Lord Tywin’s concerns about his legacy,” Stannis began, drawing the attention of the lords seated around him, He felt no small amount of satisfaction at the annoyed tightening of Tywin’s jaw. “Perhaps we could focus more on the reforms his grace plans to make with regard to the laws designed to disfavor the Stormlands, along with the North, the Vale, and the Riverlands?”

He pursed his lips as he noted that Aegon looked _pleased_ at his words. He certainly had not intended to aid the sickly king.

“Lord Baratheon, thank you for bringing up the issue that has been weighing most heavily on my mind,” the king said, giving him a smile. “I believe that my former Lord Regent, in his grief over my father, overstepped his authority in his actions, and I must sincerely apology to you all. My father, in one of his few acts as king, pardoned the rebel lords and meant for them to be treated as if the unfortunate rebellion had never occurred. Lord Connington’s discriminatory laws went directly against this edict.”

Stannis raised a brow. “Forgive me, your grace, but wasn’t your uncle, the one who now sits on your Small Council, also a member of Lord Connington’s? As was your grand uncle, who sat on the council as the Lord Commander of your Kingsguard? You trust their counsel now despite their failure at checking Lord Connington?”

“Regretfully, the Small Council does not have the authority to override the crown’s authority, whether it is wielded by the king, his Hand, or his regent,” Aegon replied.

“Perhaps that should change,” Lord Arryn spoke up, slyer than Stannis thought possible. “If the Small Council had had the authority to override the king, perhaps the rebellion could have been averted altogether.”

Aegon looked decidedly less pleased now, obviously having not expected the conversation to turn towards a check on his own power. Truthfully, Stannis hadn’t either. It had been a stroke of luck that Aegon had chosen the wrong words and given Arryn an opening.

For all his posturing, the king was still, after all, a sixteen year old boy.

“While that is a novel suggestion, my lord, I do not believe such a reduction of the crown’s power is warranted,” Princess Rhaenys said, keeping her cool facade and placid smile. “Especially now that his grace is committed to treating every kingdom equally and righting the wrongs of the past.”

There was a moment of silence as the lords measured her words with varying degrees of skepticism. Stannis was admittedly surprised when Stark leaned forward with his grey eyes flashing and spoke.

“Princess, how is the North meant to take such a declaration seriously if you are still holding my nephew hostage?” he challenged boldly.

The Targaryens were thrown by his open hostility, as was most of the room. Stannis guessed that only Lord Arryn had likely ever seen this side of the normally quiet and honorable Ned Stark. Even on the battlefield, Stannis had heard that Stark’s strength was in his composure.

Prince Jon seemed particularly amazed at the outburst, staring at Stark with a sort of wonder in his eyes. Stannis felt a twinge of sympathy for the prince. Clearly, few had ever spoken out against his mistreatment.

He quickly squashed the emotion though. The boy would have to get over his hurt feelings to lead them in the future. Best not to coddle him now.

“My brother is not my hostage, he is my _heir_ ,” Aegon answered pompously, quickly overcoming his shock. “And as it so happens, Lord Stark, we had already discussed sending him to foster at Winterfell until he comes of age, if you were amenable of course.”

Stannis was certain that not one person in the room believed that the king had meant to send his brother north. Even on the off chance that he _had_ , any goodwill he may have garnered from releasing Connington’s hostage was ruined by Stark’s challenge.

“Of course, we are amenable, your grace,” Lord Stark said tersely. “If Lord Connington hadn’t practically ripped him from my arms as a babe, he would have been raised at Winterfell. He is always welcome there.”

Whatever wonder that was in Prince Jon’s eyes was clouded with suspicion as he continued to gaze at his uncle. Stark had overdone it. Stannis was sure that Jon had heard enough empty platitudes to make him distrustful of words. It appeared that Ned Stark’s reputation for being stupidly honest wasn’t known to his nephew.

“Then it is settled, then,” Aegon declared before glancing about the table. “Now, my lords, though I know there are more issues I am sure you wish to address, we must address the most pressing one. The Iron Islands.”

Stannis pressed his lips together again. Even he had to admit that Aegon was right, though why the king allowed Tywin to prattle on about the inheritance of Casterly Rock when the Greyjoy problem breathing down their necks, he didn’t know.

“We should call our banners at once and bring war to Balon Greyjoy,” Mace Tyrell stated, knowing damn well he had never brought war to anyone. All he had done during the Rebellion was to sit on his overly plump bottom and eat. Stannis knew because he had seen it firsthand.

“You and Lord Lannister are the best situated if it is be immediate war on the Iron Islands, Lord Tyrell,” Stannis pointed out, enjoying the blanch that Tyrell quickly managed to hide. “Their strength is mostly at sea. Your fleets are our best chance at overcoming them.”

“I believe Lord Tully also has a strong position of attack from Seagard,” Tywin retorted. “And there are multiple launch points for attack on the North’s western coast.”

“Our western coast has no viable ports,” Stark replied. “All of our ships are on our eastern coast.”

“Surely every kingdom must contribute men to the cause,” Tyrell said, seeming anxious about the idea of shouldering the brunt of the burden. “The Greyjoys cannot just flout the crown’s authority! None of us can stand for that!”

“I agree with Lord Tyrell,” Jon Arryn stated, the words surprising Stannis. He frowned at the old lord. He was supposed to be on their side. Had he forgotten what the Tyrells and their Reach armies had done during the Rebellion? “A message must be sent that the whole realm stands behind the Iron Throne and that another rebellion will not be tolerated.”

Stannis ground his teeth. Another rebellion would not be tolerated? Was Arryn mad? Did the old fool seriously expect them to bow to _Dornish_ rule after all the injustices they had been dealt?

“My lords,” Aegon interjected, drawing everyone’s attention back to him. “While it may indeed come to war, I hope to at least make another diplomatic overture before we resort to drastic measures.”

“The ironborn will see that as weakness,” Tywin argued, his face displaying how unimpressed he was with the king’s suggestion. “Multiple ravens were sent to Pyke ordering them here. They have had enough chances.”

Stannis had to wonder how Lord Tywin knew that multiple ravens had been sent to Pyke.

“It is _not_ weakness to attempt a solution that does not risk the lives of thousands of our people,” Princess Rhaenys answered cooly, raising a dark brow and matching Tywin’s disdain with her own.

“That is a woman’s opinion,” Stannis remarked, speaking up at last. He turned his gaze upon Prince Jon. “What does his grace say?”

“You have had my opinion, my lord, and I agree with my sister and Hand,” Aegon replied impatiently.

“I apologize, my king,” he said without a hint of remorse. “I was referring to Prince Jon. Perhaps the use of the title you share was misleading.”

Aegon looked distinctly annoyed, which was his intent, but Stannis’s address was not incorrect. The title of “grace” was bestowed on kings, queens, and crown princes. Jon himself was staring at him with wide-eyed disbelief, though that could have been because what he had been asked as well as how he had been addressed.

After a moment, though, Jon seemed collect himself enough to answer. “While I agree that we should not risk the lives of our people when there is a chance for peace, I do not believe that Balon Greyjoy will be receptive to diplomatic overtures,” he said, voice sounding slightly hesitant as he addressed the king and all the great lords of the realm. He seemed to grow more confident as he spoke though, which was a mark in his favor.

“Reports from the Iron Islands from the past decade have shown that Lord Balon has reversed many of the reforms his father made and is trying to return the Iron Islands to the Old Way,” Jon continued. Stannis was impressed that the young prince knew that. He was sure Lord Connington hadn’t included him in his council meetings. “He probably believes that the realm won’t unite behind my brother and that he can defeat a fractured force.”

Stannis’s lips twitched upwards. Jon, perhaps without even meaning to, had upstaged Aegon in both his knowledge of the realm and his measured tone. He glanced at Aegon. The king knew it, too, if his deep frown was anything to go by.

“Be that as it may,” Aegon said, dismissing Jon’s words with a wave of his hand. “It will take time to gather our forces and move them into attack position. We won’t be ready to strike for at least a year. In the meantime, searching for a diplomatic solution is not a waste of time and will lure the ironborn into a false sense of security.”

Except that it _was_ a waste of time, and Balon Greyjoy would have ships scouting the waters and his fleet fully ready for attack no matter what they did. There would be no false sense of security. And Stannis had to wonder where the king was getting his military advice from if he believed that it would take a full _year_ to mobilize their forces.

Little else was said during the rest of the council, and the lords were left with orders to hold off calling their banners until word reached them from King’s Landing. 

Stannis was glad that the Stormlands were on the eastern coast of Westeros, as he was sure the ironborn would not take long to begin raiding the west. While he was still far from keen to fight for the Dornish king, he understood the need of keeping the realm under one banner. And since Robert had died, Stannis had resigned himself to that banner bearing the three-headed dragon sigil of House Targaryen.

He just intended that sigil to belong to _Jon_ Targaryen, _not_ Aegon.

 

#

 

There was a flurry of activity now that it had officially been announced that he was leaving for Winterfell. Lord Stark had been adamant that he would be leaving the next morning and taking Jon with him, and since Jon’s status had been a topic of discussion during the council with the Lords Paramount, Aegon had quickly decided that a feast tonight and a grand send-off in the morning was necessary.

Jon tried very hard not to think about the council. It had not been enjoyable, from the realization that his siblings were likely only keeping him alive until they could get rid of Viserys to the shock of his uncle’s almost-too-open care for his well-being to being force to speak out on the ironborn issue. It frankly left him with a confused mess of emotions that were better ignored for the time being.

The feast had passed by in a blur, with him avoiding any but the most necessary of conversations and fleeing as soon as possible. Jon was sure that he had probably offended half of the lords in attendance, but he had made the excuse of needing to ensure his belongings were adequately packed for his upcoming journey.

He had rushed back to his chambers to ensure that Blackfyre hadn’t been discovered by the servants who had done his packing. He had taken the precaution of moving it before the feast and stashing it under the settee in his solar, but he was still paranoid. He was committing what probably amounted to treason though, no matter what Robb’s reasoning was, so paranoia probably was appropriate.

He pulled Blackfyire from its hiding place. It wasn’t too late to reveal the sword to Aegon. His brother already wanted to get rid of him to clear the way for Rhaenys. What was one more reason to see him as a threat?

The ruby on the hilt glinted mockingly at him, and he scowled. If any sword could represent both the greatness and the madness in the Targaryen blood, it was this sword. At the end of the day, though, it was just a sword. Who cared who it had once belonged to or what it was made out of? Why was he allowing it to cause him so much grief?

He felt unbelievably guilty at dragging Robb into this plot. He didn’t know what madness had driven him to compulsively confide in his cousin, but he regretted it. Not for the reasons he would have expected, though. He didn’t doubt Robb’s trustworthiness and sincerity. Instead, Jon felt like _he_ had betrayed _Robb’s_ trust by including him in this Blackfyre mess.

Perhaps Aegon was right to prefer Rhaenys succeed him in the event that he had no children. Jon was obviously terrible at these courtly games. This was the first intrigue he had been knowingly involved in, and he was paralyzed with indecision.

He could not deny that he wanted the sword. Wielding the sword of Aegon the Conqueror would certainly show his siblings, Viserys, Connington, and everyone who ever mistreated him that he was a true Targaryen, a true _prince_ , the heir to the throne, and someone they should be sorry to have crossed him. 

Was that really a good reason to want it, though? Was it worth the consequences of being found out before he was safely in the North? Was it worth the price _Robb_ may have to pay if it were found in his possession?

Jon sighed in defeat. He knew the answer to that. No matter how satisfactory it would be to have the sword, it wasn’t worth it. Even if Robb turned out to be as false as everyone else he had ever met, Jon would feel guilty if he and Lord Stark were accused of treason on his behalf.

In stubborn determination, he grabbed Blackfyre and marched resolutely to Aegon’s chambers, startling Ser Oswell first and then Prince Lewyn, who was guarding the king’s door. The Lord Commander recovered from his surprise quickly enough to keep him from entering unannounced.

Staring down at Jon with dark eyes studying the sword in his hand suspicious, he knocked on the door behind him without turning. Aegon opened it a moment later, dressing gown wrapped around him.

“The prince seems insistent on speaking with you, your grace,” Lewyn stating, a dark note of humor in his voice.

“My brother is always welcome, uncle. Please, Jon, come in,” Aegon said.

He shook his head. “I don’t need to. Here,” he thrust the sword into Aegon’s hands. “Varys gave it to me and claims it is Blackfyre. I don’t know what his plan is, but I want no part of it.”

Jon barely took in Aegon and Lewyn’s shocked faces before he turned and all but fled into his chambers, losing his nerve once the deed was done.

He didn’t know whether he had done the right thing, but at least the anxious knot inside his stomach had disappeared. And tomorrow he would leave for Winterfell and finally leave King’s Landing behind him for good.

 

#

 

They were traveling to Winterfell by ship. For some reason, Jon hadn’t expected that. He supposed it was a long journey by land, and sailing to White Harbor made the most sense with such a small party.

Jon also hadn’t expected Ser Oswell and his squire to accompany him to Winterfell. If it were just Ser Oswell, he wouldn’t have been so surprised, but he hadn’t thought that Lord Tyrell or the new Queen Margaery would have wanted the young Loras to travel to the cold North.

There were nearly as many people gathered around the dock to see him off as there had been to greet Aegon and Rhaenys when they first arrived in the city. His brother had been more than magnanimous in wishing him well, gesturing towards three large chests of gold that were being loaded on the ship as his “pocket money” while he was at Winterfell.

Jon couldn’t fathom _why_ he would need the gold and thought it was foolish for Aegon to send so much at once and announce it to all the people gathered around. It seemed like an open invitation for pirates or bandits.

“Lord Stark, we won’t delay you for much longer,” Aegon told the northern lord, who was standing off to the side with Robb and watching the entire display with a brooding expression. “We have only have one more gift for my brother.”

Rhaenys stepped forward then, a long, thin clothed-wrapped package in her hands. Jon knew even before he took it that it was a sword. When he unwrapped the hilt, though, he was stunned to see a familiar ruby glinting at him.

“The gods have blessed our house with the return of our ancestor’s sword,” Aegon announced, speaking more to the crowd than to Jon. “As the Prince of Dragonstone, we know of no one more qualified to wield it.”

The knot in his stomach was back as he mechanically thanked Aegon. He had gotten the sword, just like he wanted, and had gotten it without anyone being able to accuse him of betraying his brother. So why did he feel sick at the sight of the sword?

Robb gave him a confused look as they boarded the ship but waited until his father had left him to see to something before asking, “What happened?”

Jon shook his head. “I gave the sword to Aegon because I didn’t want to be involved in any plots.”

“Then why did he give it back?”

He gave a hollow laugh. “Because he’s involving me in his plots.”

 

#

 

“You gave him Blackfyre,” she stated, tearing her eyes away from the sails barely visible on the horizon and raising a questioning brow at her brother.

“Jon has the makings of a great swordsman, and he is my heir. Who better to have it?”

Rhaenys pursed her lips before leaving the window and settling on the settee in the king’s solar. Aegon’s treatment of their younger brother was maddeningly inconsistent. She knew that he had, through their Uncle Oberyn, encouraged the mistreatment of Jon these last few years. Not that Connington’s abuse of the prince had needed much encouragement, but Aegon had told Oberyn to not interfere.

It rankled her, but she loved Aegon and would not betray him.

_You must take care of your siblings, firefly. Protect them, my strong girl, when I am gone_.

Her father’s last words haunted her whenever she thought of Jon, but what was she to do when protecting one meant deserting the other?

“He doesn’t want the crown, you know?” she told him. “He’s no threat to your rule.”

“ _He_ is not who I am worried about, but the rebel lords who would pledge themselves to him even while I lived if he but asked,” Aegon replied darkly. “They would choose him over any son I may have.”

“But _Jon_ would not take the crown over a son of yours!” Rhaenys insisted. She privately thought that Jon would make a great king precisely _because_ he didn’t want it, but she would never tell that to Aegon. “Viserys is the one you need to be concerned about.”

Her brother smirked at that. “I have Viserys well in hand. Uncle Doran has offered a betrothal.”

She frowned. This was the first she was hearing of this. “Arianne won’t do it,” she said with certainty. “She won’t be your gaoler.”

Aegon rolled his eyes. “Arianne will do as she’s told. She doesn’t have to bed him, just wed him. She can bed anyone she likes and any babes she has by her lovers will be legitimized as Martells.”

Rhaenys thought her brother was vastly underestimating how stubborn their cousin could be, but decided that now was not the best time to argue.

“And what are your plans for Jon now that he has left King’s Landing?” she asked, disliking how secretive Aegon was being when it came to their brother. Usually, she was included in all of his plans. Perhaps Aegon didn’t trust that she would choose him if it came to him or Jon.

“They have yet to be decided,” was the answer, leaving her far from reassured.


	13. Age 14, Part 1

Jon turned fourteen the day before they docked in White Harbor. In King’s Landing, his nameday had usually passed without any real note, though Ser Oswell and Ser Barristan had always at least acknowledged it when they greeted him. It had never bothered him. As he had grown older, the day became a sad reminder to him that his mother had died on the same day that she had named him, and that if it hadn’t been for him, Lyanna Stark might still be alive.

He wasn’t sure if it was a fair trade.

It surprised him, then, when Robb burst into his cabin before Jon was even properly dressed with a wide grin, a plate of fried cakes drizzled with honey, and a boisterous “Happy nameday!”

Jon could only blink at him as Ser Oswell discreetly closed the door and left them alone, but not before sending Jon a warm smile.

Robb mistook his shock as his smile took on a more chagrinned tone. “I know it’s not that grand of a breakfast, but it’s the best the ship’s cook could do.”

“No, it’s great!” he was quick to assure, hating that his surprise may have translated into disappointment. “Best nameday breakfast ever,” he said truthfully as he grabbed a cake before offering one to Robb.

His cousin rolled his eyes as he took one and threw himself onto the bed next to Jon. “No need to exaggerate. I just thought it would be nice to mark the day with a treat. I know Father is planning a grander celebration once we get off this blasted ship and back to Winterfell, but it won’t be your nameday then.”

It was the first time Jon had heard of a grand celebration, but if it was anything like the feasts in King’s Landing, he was sure he’d hate it. He didn’t tell Robb that, though.

“No one’s really made much of a fuss over my nameday before,” he said honestly, not wanting Robb to think he was making fun of his efforts or that he was ungrateful. His cousin had quickly become his near constant companion on the voyage so far, and Jon had become too used to his presence. He would hate to offend him and drive him away.

“That's horrible!” Robb cried in a scandalized voice.

Jon shrugged, not really knowing how to handle the outrage in his cousin’s eyes and wishing he had just kept his mouth shut. He should have known that Robb wouldn’t take it very well. Robb had spent his entire life doted on by his parents and admired by the entire North. He had never been made to feel unwanted and could never relate to life in King’s Landing.

Thankfully, before he had to come up with something to say in response, there was a knock on the door before it opened and Lord Stark walked in.

“I see I’m a little late to the celebration,” he said, giving them both a smile, which quickly melted to confusion as he took in Robb’s expression. “Did I interrupt an argument?”

“No, Uncle,” Jon was quick to assure, sending a slightly pleading look to Robb and hoping his cousin would catch on. Lord Stark had already proven to be quite invested in learning about his less-than-happy childhood. Jon wasn’t sure _why_ he cared so much, but he was not going to play right into his hands.

“Jon was just telling me that he had never had fried cakes before,” Robb lied admirably. Jon knew that it was a skill he often used when he covered for his four younger siblings, though he had also confided in Jon that he had always hated lying to his parents. Guilt flooded Jon at making his cousin lie for him, but he quickly pushed it away.

His uncle’s smile was back, though, as he bought the excuse. “I’m sure Jon will likely experience many foods he has never tasted before while in the North,” he said, pulling a chair closer to the bed and taking a seat. “Happy nameday, son,” he continued, holding out a clothe-wrapped package about two and a half hand-lengths long.

Jon eyed the package suspiciously for a moment before taking it, knowing that no present was ever given without strings attached but not knowing a way to decline his uncle’s gift. Given the size and weight of the package, he wasn’t surprised when he removed the cloth to reveal a dagger. It was a slender thing, but sturdy, stylized, but functional, with a silver wolf’s head for a pommel.

“It was your mother’s,” Lord Stark told him, causing him to look up in surprise. His uncle seemed to know exactly what he was thinking. “Lyanna wasn’t one to conform to what was considered acceptable for a young woman,” he mused with a sad smile. “It drove our father crazy, but Brandon encouraged her and gave her this dagger when she was about your age.”

Jon held the dagger almost reverently in his hands as he stared down at it with new eyes. Knowing that it once belonged to his mother, that it was tangible proof that she had lived, made him ache with longing. He wished with all his might that he could have known her. No matter how disappointed in him she would probably have been. He just wanted to know her.

“Thank you,” he murmured, not meeting either Lord Stark or Robb’s eyes for fear of them seeing the tears he was fighting back.

“Robb and I will let you finish dressing,” his uncle said to his infinite relief. The door had barely shut behind them before Jon lost his battle and let two teardrops fall from his eyes to splash on the steel blade.

He hastily wiped the moisture from the blade before scrubbing his face. It was stupid to wish for his mother. She was dead and never coming back. Would she be happy that he was going to Winterfell? It was where she had grown up, but it was also the place she had run away from to marry his father.

That wasn’t right, though, was it? By all accounts, Lyanna Stark had been set to marry Robert Baratheon before she had eloped with Rhaegar Targaryen. It hadn’t been the North she had tried to escape from, but marriage. Or maybe it hadn’t been an escape at all. Maybe she had just fallen in love.

Whatever her reasons, Jon decided that his stay in Winterfell was probably the only way for him to learn anything about his mother. He might not be able to know her personally, but he could know her from those that did.

A tiny voice in his head warned him that his uncle had likely given him the dagger to remind him of his mother and gain his trust, but Jon didn’t care. He’d pay whatever price Lord Stark asked for information on his mother.

 

#

 

Mercifully, neither Lord Stark nor Robb mentioned his nameday, or the dagger, again and, though everyone on the ship greeted him with a “happy nameday,” he was able to push aside the emotions of that morning and focus on the training Ser Oswell forced him to do, determined that his prince would not fall out of form.

Swordplay at sea was hardly the same as swordplay on land, with the movement of the ship making it necessary to constantly adjust his balance, and he was therefore sorer than usual the next morning when he rose to discover that they would be docking at White Harbor within the hour.

Set to meet one of his uncle’s most prominent bannermen, Jon unexpectedly found himself missing Rhaenys as he considered his clothing options, if only because he had no clue what would be the most appropriate attire to wear. He had noticed that Robb and Lord Stark’s clothing was often understated and more functional than ornamental. Unfortunately, his wardrobe didn’t contain many pieces that would fit that style. Most were commissioned by his sister, who Jon suspected would turn her nose up at the idea of “understated” or “functional” clothing.

Lord Manderly would likely be insulted if Jon disembarked wearing any of the informal, and frankly, slightly worn, clothes that he had taken to wearing on the ship. 

In the end, he settled on a pair of grey trousers and the plainest black doublet he could find. The outfit still felt flashy to him, particularly with the silver embroidery at the shoulders and neck of the doublet, and he was sure he would look ridiculous next to the somber clothing of the Starks, but it would have to do. At least he had avoided wearing red.

He had just finished dressing when Ser Oswell knocked and entered at Jon’s call. Loras was behind him, carrying a tray of simple breakfast fare for the both of them.

“You’ll need a cloak,” the knight told him as he tossed an apple at him.

Jon caught it with a frown. “It hasn’t been that cold during the journey. Surely I’ll be warm enough.”

“We don’t have as much of the warm sea breeze now that we’ve reached the harbor. The air has taken on a chill,” Oswell explained. “I’m surprised you aren’t cold right now, but once you leave the cabin, you’ll need a cloak. And make sure you’re armed,” he added seriously. “I don’t know these northmen enough to trust them entirely with your safety.”

Jon rolled his eyes as he took a bite of his apple. “I can’t wear both a cloak and my sword. Blackfyre is too long for me to wear on my hip,” he said grumpily. He felt childish carrying the bastard sword across his back, and no matter how much Ser Oswell worked with him, he still couldn’t manage to unsheathe it smoothly from his back. The knight assured him that it’d settle comfortably on his hip after his next growth spurt, but that didn’t help him now. And wearing it on his back over his cloak would make actually using it even more difficult.

“The dagger then,” the knight replied not to be swayed. “Wear it on your belt.”

Though he was certain he was in no danger from either the cold or the northmen, he finished his apple and drug through his trunk to find his cloak. After he threw it on and strapped his mother’s dagger to his belt, he turned to Ser Oswell. “Happy?”

The Kingsguard frowned though. “Not especially. You’ll need a warmer cloak. It’ll do for White Harbor, but the temperatures will get colder as we near Winterfell.”

“This one will have to do for now,” Jon said with a sigh. It was a good thing Aegon had sent him North with so much gold. He’d need it for a new, more practical, wardrobe.

They ate their meal without further discussion and joined Lord Stark and Robb on the deck as the crew prepared the gangway for their departure. Jon was pleased to note that his clothing did not look too out of place next to the Starks.

Robb leaned closer to him. “I don’t know if anyone warned you or not, but Lord Manderly has two granddaughters close to our age. I am sure they’ve both been instructed to be very friendly to us.”

Jon rolled his eyes. He was no stranger to highborn maids flashing smiles and batting lashes at him in order to win his favor. Well, the favor of the heir to the Iron Throne. He wasn’t surprised to hear that Robb dealt with the same issue as the heir to Winterfell. 

Lord Stark gave Robb a disapproving look. “Lord Manderly is a true friend of Winterfell and will likely welcome us into his home with open arms. You will be gracious guests and entertain his granddaughters should they seek out your company.”

“Yes, Father,” Robb replied, coloring at his father’s displeasure.

“I appreciate the warning,” Jon interjected to help him out. “I would hate to give either lady any false hope.” While Rhaenys had only mentioned it to him once, he was fairly certain that Aegon wouldn’t let him marry anyone without his permission.

Both his uncle and Robb were right. Lord Manderly welcomed them effusively, alongside his two sons, his good daughter, and two granddaughters. Later on, during the lavish feast Lord Manderly threw in their honor, these last two, Wynafryd and Wylla, were not so coincidentally seated across from Jon and Robb.

Despite the obvious contrivance of their seating, Jon found their company surprisingly pleasant. For one, it was easy to tell them apart, mostly because Lady Wylla had her hair dyed a garish green color that was so shocking that it made it impossible to forget her name. For another, neither girl overtly flirted with either him or Robb, not like the gaggle of Reach ladies that had plagued Jon in King’s Landing.

Mostly, though, Jon was glad that they were kind enough to not mention anything about King’s Landing and kept their conversation focused on the North, supposedly to educate Jon as to its people. And he did have to admit that they had managed to teach him more about the northmen than Maester Lorezo ever had.

“If I were to visit any place in the North, it would have to be Bear Island,” Wylla told them wistfully after discussing the history of her own house. “Mother would never let me, though. She doesn’t approve of Lady Mormont.”

“Wylla,” her sister scolded before giving Robb an apologetic smile. “My family holds nothing but respect for the Mormonts of Bear Island. Mother is just a bit… traditional, in her views of what is proper for a lady.”

“I understand,” Robb assured her. “My mother is the same way. But Lady Mormont and her daughters are to be commended for how they have governed Bear Island since Jorah Mormont’s banishment.”

Jon was aware enough of the happenings in the North to know that Lord Stark had banished Jorah Mormont after he was discovered selling poachers into slavery. 

“I agree, my lord,” Wylla replied. “And, to be frank, I rather admire Lady Mormont and her daughters. They’re honest and forthright. Much preferable to the southron ladies who say one thing when they mean another.”

“I see you’ve met enough southron ladies to get the measure of them,” Jon quipped, amused at her candor. 

“Lord Connington granted my father and uncle special disposition to compete in the tourney Lord Tyrell held for his second son’s wedding,” Wynafryd explained. “Wylla and I accompanied them and got our fill of southern courtesies.”

The mention of Connington and Tyrell put Jon on edge, and it was just as well that conversation died off around the hall as a band of musicians entered and began playing.

Jon listened politely as the familiar chords of the Ballad of Jonquil and Florian began playing. Robb looked about as interested in the song as Jon was, but Wynafryd and Wylla were paying rapt attention to the singer as he sung about how Jonquil’s beauty enraptured Florian.

He clapped dutifully at the end of the song along with the rest of the crowd. He hoped that signaled the end of the entertainment, but was disappointed when the musicians began playing another tune, this one unfamiliar to him.

The crowd around him became eerily somber as the singer began, which was unusual enough to make Jon concentrate on the words. It began with a mysterious knight defending the honor of a young lord and enraging a mad king, who sent his silver son to hunt down the knight. It wasn’t until the silver prince unmasked the knight to reveal a wolf girl in disguise, though, that Jon realized who the song was about.

He could barely breathe as the song went on to describe his father crowning his mother as the Queen of Love and Beauty, their escape from Aerys’s wrath, and their secret wedding. It ended with Rhaegar dying from his battle wounds, and Lyanna losing the will to live without her silver prince.

Not one person applauded as the singer crooned the last notes. Jon blinked hastily to keep his tears back as he peered around the hall. Wylla and Wynafryd looked stricken and embarrassed, sneaking peeks at him and Robb but avoiding their eyes. Robb had gone stock-still next to him, and Lord Stark’s face had gone white with anger. It was Lord Manderly, however, that addressed the musicians, who had been quick to realize the mistake they had made.

“You dare play that filthy southern song turning the tragedy of Lady Lyanna’s death into some insipid love story?!” the large lord roared, hoisting himself to his feet with difficulty. “In the presence of her royal son and noble brother, no less!”

The singer visibly quaked as he fell to his knees. “M-milord,” he stammered. “W-we meant to honor Prince Jon and Lord Stark.”

“You failed,” Manderly said shortly, gesturing towards his household guards. “Remove them from the castle and make sure they never set foot in White Harbor again.” Once they were gone, he inclined his upper body as far as it would go, once in Lord Stark’s direction and once in Jon’s. “Forgive me, your grace, my lord. Had I known that the musicians I hired for tonight would dare—”

“Peace, Lord Manderly,” Lord Stark interrupted, holding up a hand to forestall anything further. “You could not have known.”

“Still, I should have forbade the song before allowing them to play, my lord, and I apologize for my lack of foresight,” the merman lord replied as he took his seat.

Jon was sure he was poor company for Robb and the Manderly ladies for the remainder of the feast, but he really couldn’t bring himself to keep track of the conversation, too busy thinking about the singer’s song. How much of it was true?

He had no doubt that his mother had disguised herself as a knight and ridden in a tourney. It fit with the image he had of her in his head as fierce and untamable. Had his grandfather really called for her death? Had her abduction by his father actually been a rescue?

And, most importantly, had she really just given up after Rhaegar had died?

It hurt Jon to think that he hadn’t been enough reason for his mother to hold on. Had she known even at his birth that he would be a disappointment?

The feast ended not long after the debacle with the musicians, and Wynafryd and Wylla were tasked with showing he and Robb to their chambers, with Ser Oswell and Loras following behind them dutifully. The knight and squire would be retiring to their nearby chambers as well, something Jon had insisted on. With Stark men posted outside his and Robb’s chambers, he saw no reason for the Kingsguard to exhaust himself by standing guard though the night.

He was happy to be alone once he finally separated from the others and entered the chambers prepared for him. They were very well situated, but he ignored that and stalked over to the wash basin to splash his face with cold water. After rigorously scrubbing his face with his hands, he sank down on the bed and tried to ground himself.

Why was he fixating on this so much? Lord Connington had told him his entire life that his father would have been disappointed in him, why did it matter that his mother would have been too?

A knock on the door startled him. He shook his head before telling who ever it was to come in, expecting to see Robb or maybe Ser Oswell.

He hadn’t expected Lord Stark.

“Uncle,” he said, moving to scramble to his feet before his uncle placed a hand on his shoulder and settled down next to him on the bed.

“You’ve never heard the Song of the Wolf and the Dragon before?” he asked. At Jon’s nod, he sighed. “I’m sorry you had to be ambushed by it tonight. It is quite popular in the South.”

Jon remembered that he had heard it spoken of when he had been eavesdropping on his siblings. “Is it all true?”

“The barebones of the story, the who, the where, the when,” he replied sadly before his voice turned to steel. “But whoever wrote it knew _nothing_ about Lyanna. Your mother would have _never_ given up. She loved her family too much. She loved _you_ too much.”

His eyes welled with tears at that, and he swallowed thickly. “I don’t think I’m anything like her,” he confessed. “I don’t think she would have liked me much.”

“Your mother never wanted anyone to be anything but what they are,” his uncle told him, lifting his chin to look him in the eye. “The only thing she wouldn’t like would be you changing who you are to please her or anyone else.”

Jon stiffened as Lord Stark wrapped his arms around him but eventually relaxed into the embrace and hid his tears in his uncle’s shoulder. “I don’t know who I am,” he admitted a few moments later after regaining some of his composure. He didn’t relinquish his hold on his uncle, though, and kept his face hidden.

“You probably know than you think you do,” Ned told him with a light chuckle. “But you’re still young. You have the time to figure it out.”

He pulled back and looked up at his uncle hesitantly. “What if I’m someone you don’t want me to be?”

His uncle looked at him seriously. “Jon, I have loved you since the day the maester laid you in my arms and told me you needed a name, and I would love you even if you became the next King Aerys. Never doubt that.”

Jon furrowed his brow as he realized something he hadn’t known before. “You named me?”

The naming of a child was a sacred a custom as the offering of bread and salt. While the one conferred upon a guest the right to be able to rest and eat in another’s home without fear of harm, the other was a way to claim a child as one’s own. Though normally done by a parent, when it was done by someone else, it was akin to adopting a child as your own.

“I promised Lyanna that I would protect you and love you in her stead,” his uncle answered. “I’ve done a poor job of it so far, but I hope you’ll allow me a chance to make it up to you both.”

Words would not come to him, but he nodded, allowing his uncle to pull him into another embrace and wondering if this is what it felt like to have a father.

Jon hated the tiny voice in his head telling him to not to trust the feeling.


	14. Age 14, Part 2

She winced as the brush pulled through a particularly stubborn tangle and tried to twist away from the pain. Her mother’s firm hand on her shoulder kept her in place.

“Sit still, Arya,” Catelyn said, exasperation evident in her voice. “It will only be worse if you squirm.”

She scowled but made an effort to stop moving. It was hard, though, when the brush kept catching in her hair.

“If you hadn’t been running around like a stable boy earlier, your hair wouldn’t be so tangled,” Sansa told her from where she sat in front of their mother’s mirror. Though Sansa kept her voice even, Arya knew she meant it to be mean.

“I don’t see why we have to get all dressed up anyway,” she said petulantly. “Father won’t care.”

“Your father is not the only one arriving today,” her mother reminded.

“We’re going to be hosting royalty,” Sansa pointed out, as if Arya had forgotten. “Prince Jon will be used to the courtesies of the fine lords and ladies of King’s Landing. We have to make him feel at home.”

Arya rolled her eyes at that. Sansa and Jeyne Poole had talked about nothing but Jon Targaryen ever since they had learned he would be coming to stay at Winterfell. She couldn’t say that she wasn’t curious about the prince herself, but she wasn’t all giggly and stupid about it. “He’s going to be staying for a while. Why shouldn’t we just be ourselves?”

“I’d like to believe that I have raised my daughters with courtesies that matched those of King’s Landing,” her mother answered, finally managing to get the brush through her hair without it catching on a tangle.

Sansa smiled. “I shall not let you down, Mother,” she said demurely.

Arya scowled again, sure that _she_ would definitely let Catelyn down. It wasn’t her fault. She wasn’t good at all the ladylike things Septa Mordane tried to teach them. Not like _Sansa_ was. She was good at other things. She was better at sums than Sansa and could ride a horse better than Bran. Or at least she could when she wasn’t forced to ride side-saddle. Who cared if she couldn’t dance or that her stitches were always crooked or that she always wobbled when she curtsied.

And if stupid Prince Jon cared, so what? He’d probably like Sansa better anyway. 

“I’m sure you will both make me proud,” their mother proclaimed as she tied off the braid she had just finished in Arya’s hair. She stood and stepped around Arya, placing both hands on her shoulders. “They’ll be here by mid-afternoon. Can eat your luncheon and attend your lessons without ruining your dress or mussing your hair? If you can’t, you’ll have nothing to wear to the feast tonight.”

Arya flushed and looked down. The rest of the day would be no fun at all, but she wouldn’t let her mother down. “Yes, Mother.”

“Good, now let’s go round up the boys for luncheon.”

Luncheon was served in Catelyn’s solar, with the servants busy cleaning the Great Hall and the smaller family dining room in preparation for the prince’s stay. Arya concentrated hard on her food, avoiding anything with sauce or gravy that could drip onto her dress. Not only did her mother’s warning echo in her head, but she didn’t want to ruin something so pretty.

Her mother had stopped commissioning pretty gowns for her after she had ripped her last one two years ago playing with Bran, calling it wasteful. Not that Arya cared. The simple dresses she wore instead were easier to run around in anyway and were much more comfortable. And she was allowed to wear trousers when she went riding. Well, she had stolen a pair of Bran’s old trousers to ride in and her mother hadn’t taken them away from her. Who cared if she didn’t get pretty dresses like Sansa?

She liked the one she got for Prince Jon’s nameday feast, though. It was a dark grey velvet trimmed with silver embroidery. She had never had a velvet gown before and couldn’t help but rub the fabric between her fingers occasionally. It felt nice.

Arya looked longingly at the piece of beef dowsed with gravy on Bran’s plate as he happily ate, paying no mind to the brown spots dripping onto his clothes as she chewed on her own, slightly dry, meat. The boys had yet to change. They were younger, and their mother didn’t trust them to not get dirty.

Septa Mordane had them practicing their penmanship after luncheon. This was a task that Arya hated on the best of days, with the septa always frowning at her shaky letters and fawning over Sansa’s perfect handwriting, but it was made worse with how careful she had to be with the ink. She was happy when the lesson was cut short by a blast of a horn that signaled the return of the Lord of Winterfell.

Even Sansa didn’t even wait to be excused before they were rushing for the courtyard. Though she wanted to get there quickly, Arya matched paced with Sansa, sure that her sister’s speed was slow enough to keep her dress and hair neat. Their mother was waiting for them with her brothers on either side of her.

Arya slid into place next to Bran and tried not to bounce on the balls of her feet. She wouldn’t give Sansa or Jeyne Poole the satisfaction of seeing her excited. They’d only tease her for it later. Beth Cassel gave her a small smile as she chose to stand near Arya rather than Sansa. Arya felt a well of affection for the quiet girl at that. Though closer to Arya in age, Beth usually attached herself to Sansa and Jeyne rather than Arya. It was nice of her to choose Arya just this once.

Soon, there were horses clamoring into the courtyard, her father sitting proudly astride the lead horse. Though Arya was happy to see her father, she looked past him, craning her neck a bit to scan the faces behind him. Prince Jon wasn’t difficult to spot, not with the Kingsguard next to him in gleaming white armor.

He didn’t look anything like she had expected. Of course, the entire realm knew that the prince had taken after his mother, but Arya hadn’t expected him to look so much like a Stark. He looked like her father and Uncle Benjen. He looked like _her_.

She was sure Sansa was disappointed. She and Jeyne had spent most of the journey from Riverrun discussing how handsome the prince would be, daydreaming about silver hair and purple eyes. To find that his looks were rather unremarkable would put an end to those dreams.

Arya, though, was excited. She had always felt like the odd one out among her siblings, with dark hair instead of auburn and grey eyes instead of blue. It didn’t matter that she looked like her father. She knew that looks weren’t really what made family, but the fact that she looked so different really highlighted that she never really _fit_ with her brothers and sister.

Her differences with Sansa were obvious, but her brothers weren’t much better. Robb tried, of course, but he spent so much time training or studying that she didn’t get to spend much time with him. He was too concerned about living up to Father’s expectations as his heir. Arya didn’t blame him for that, but it definitely made him no fun.

Rickon was still a baby. When he wasn’t with his nursemaid, he was with their mother. The nursemaid was too stuffy, and as much as Arya loved her mother, she wasn’t much fun either, and she never even _tried_ to understand Arya’s problems. She just told her to try to be more like Sansa.

She was closest to Bran, but he was always climbing. He spent more time on the roofs of Winterfell than on the ground. Arya wasn’t surefooted enough to follow.

She was knocked out of her thoughts by Rickon’s squeals of joy as he rushed towards their father. Ned let out a laugh as he dismounted and scooped her brother up in his arms. Arya rushed forward as well, her father’s laugh reminding her how much she had missed him. Bran was a beat behind her, but her dress allowed them to reach their father at the same time, with her arms wrapping around Ned’s waist first.

“I missed you, Father,” she told him, looking up at his smiling face before releasing him. Her mother was surely cursing her lack of decorum, but Ned didn’t seem to mind.

“Are there no hugs for your big brother?” Robb asked as he came up behind their father.

Arya grinned and threw her arms around him. He might take his duties a little too serious sometimes, but he was still the big brother who always at least _tried_ to comfort her when she was upset and protected her from punishments when he could.

“Robb!” Bran cried, releasing their father and giving him an exuberant hug as Sansa and their mother greeted Ned more sedately.

Robb laughed as he returned Bran’s hug. He turned and waved someone over. “Jon! Come and meet your other cousins!”

Arya peered curiously as the prince approached them, the Kingsguard and another boy flanking him. She had expected him be arrogant, but there was uncertainty in his eyes as he looked at her and Bran. Almost as if he wasn’t sure if he were welcome.

“Jon, this is my sister Arya and my brother Bran,” Robb introduced with far less formality than their mother would approve of. “Arya, Bran, this is Prince Jon Targaryen.”

“Just Jon, please,” the prince said, rather awkwardly. Arya really wasn’t sure if he meant it, though. He looked even more uncomfortable after he had spoken than he had before.

She hesitated for a moment, not sure how to greet him. Calling him “my prince” and curtsying as her mother would have her do would probably make him _more_ uncomfortable, not to mention there was a good chance she’d lose her balance and look like an idiot. Thinking quickly, she made the bold decision to treat him the same way she’d treat any member of her family.

She threw her arms around him in a tight but brief hug. “Welcome to Winterfell, cousin!” she declared with a grin.

He blinked down at her in shock but didn’t have the time to respond to her greeting before he was given a similar one from Bran.

Sansa and her mother looked put out by their welcome, but put on polite, but warm, smiles as they curtsied and offered their own, more proper welcome. Though Jon responded with his own polite smile, Arya couldn’t help but think it looked a bit forced.

 

#

 

Northern feasts, Jon quickly decided, were not at all like southern feasts. Sure, they both had plenty of food and drink, dancing and music, and far too many people, but northern feasts seemed to lack the structure that southern feasts had. To his surprise, Jon found that he enjoyed these types of feasts more. There was something to be said about the freedom to spend the evening partaking in whatever frivolity that one wanted.

Jon himself spend most of the feast observing, still not quite at ease with his Stark relatives but more at ease with them than he was with the rest of attendees. Robb stayed at his side, telling him who was who and sharing stories about Winterfell. Lady Sansa sat on Robb’s other side, whispering with two of her friends and glancing at Jon every once and a while.

He avoided her eyes whenever she looked his way. She was a few years younger than him, and while she was not flirtatious like the ladies from the Reach had been in the Red Keep, it wasn’t hard to see that she had the same aims. Lady Stark’s eyes darted between the two of them as well, a hopeful gleam in them.

Jon sighed as he took a sip of his wine. He hadn’t thought about his uncle’s daughters. Was there an expectation that he would marry the eldest? Was Lord Stark’s affection for him merely feigned in order to make his daughter queen?

He put his goblet down, suddenly very queasy. He excused himself, telling a concerned Robb that he just needed some air, before escaping the hall. He managed to slip the notice of Ser Oswell and Loras, who had taken to dogging his steps nearly as much as the knight. He breathed a sigh of relief once he got to the much quieter courtyard.

It wasn’t silent, though, he realized, his ears picking up the faint sound of sniffling. Frowning, his eyes scanned the shadows around him. He finally spotted her sitting on a set of stairs on the adjacent wall, hunched over with her shoulders shaking.

He bit his lip, not knowing if his presence would be wanted when she was so upset, but he couldn’t just _leave_. Not when she had welcomed him so genuinely earlier. Besides, she was only nine years old. He couldn’t just go inside and leave her crying all alone.

He approached her, consciously making as much noise as possible so as not to startle her. It must have worked, because her sniffles ceased as he neared and she was hastily wiping her face.

“Are you alright?” he asked gently.

“I’m fine,” Arya snapped back harshly, keeping her face turned away from him. Even in the moonlight, Jon could see the flush of embarrassment on her cheeks, though.

“Are you sure?” he pressed, surprising himself. He wasn’t typically one to impose on others, tending to fade into the background whenever possible and extremely mindful of when he was being a nuisance. Something about her struck a cord in him though. Maybe it was because he could see so much of himself in her. Not only in their shared physical features, but also in how she was currently trying to hide her pain.

“It’s nothing,” she said with a self-deprecating scoff. “It’s stupid, really. I shouldn’t be blubbering about it.”

“I don’t think you’d be out here alone if it were really stupid,” Jon replied, easing himself down on the stairs to sit next to her.

“It _is_ ,” she insisted, thrusting her arm out and glaring at him in challenge. He frowned as he looked at her arm, instantly spotting the problem. There was a large gash in the seam of the sleeve. 

“I ripped it,” Arya explained, the words tumbling out in a rush now that she had admitted it. “I didn’t mean to! It caught on a table and it just ripped! It’s the first nice gown Mother gave me in ages and I’ve already ruined it!”

“If it ripped that easily, it must not have been sewn very well,” Jon tried to comfort her. “But it looks like it could be sewn up again.”

She scoffed again. “Not by me. I’m horrible at sewing, and unless _you_ know how to sew, I’ll have to tell Mother and get her to fix it. I don’t even _care_ about fancy dresses,” she said with a scowl. “I shouldn’t be _crying_ over one. It’s stupid.”

“You’re not crying over the dress, and it’s not stupid,” he told her. She gave him a questioning look, and he thought for a moment about how to explain what he meant. “When I was younger, I used to get upset that my aunt Daenerys always had a Kingsguard with her and I didn’t, even though I didn’t _want_ a Kingsguard to follow me everywhere. But I wanted people to care that I was safe like they cared that she was safe.”

Actually, what he wanted was the safety that Ser Barristan had offered against Viserys, but he wasn’t going to tell her _that_.

“Why wouldn’t people care that you were safe?” Arya demanded, outraged on his behalf.

“That’s not the point,” he said.

“It should be!” she stated, giving him a stern look. “You’re the Prince of Dragonstone! Who knows who might have wanted to hurt you? Why weren’t you protected?”

“I was perfectly safe in the Red Keep,” he lied, bemused by her sudden shift in moods. “The point is that maybe the real reason you’re upset is because your mother will be disappointed in you.”

“That shouldn’t upset me, though,” Arya said in resignation. “She’s always disappointed in me. I’m not very good at being a lady. Not like Sansa is.”

“Between you and me, I think that’s a good thing,” Jon told her, giving her a conspiratorial smirk when she gazed at him in shock. “All the ladies I’ve ever met in King’s Landing have been downright frightening.”

Arya’s eyes widened. “Frightening how?”

Jon shrugged. “I don’t know. They weren’t very trustworthy, not that anyone in King’s Landing was. And they always seemed to want something from you whenever they talked to you, but they never just came out and said _what_ they wanted.”

She snorted. “It’s obvious what they wanted,” she told him in a mock superior tone, giving him a devious grin. “They wanted to be your _princess_.”

He laughed. “True, but it wasn’t a very good way to go about it.”

“Sansa wants to marry you,” Arya said matter-of-factly. “Jeyne too, though she’s realistic enough to know that it won’t happen. But Sansa daydreams all the time about royal weddings and tourneys in the south.”

Jon made a face. “I was afraid of that. I wouldn’t be able to marry her even if I wanted to. The king is probably going to pick my bride for me.”

She rolled her eyes. “That won’t stop her from sighing over you,” she warned.

“What do your parents expect?” he asked nervously, figuring he could at least expect an honest answer from her.

Arya just shrugged though. “I don’t know. All Mother has told us is that we are to be on our best behavior while you’re here, and Father hasn’t said anything but that you’re to be treated as family.”

It was honest, even if it didn’t really tell him anything. Still he found that he enjoyed her company. She had the same easy nature as Robb, but, unlike her brother, it was clear she felt the same sense of not quite belonging that Jon did.

“I could be here a good while,” Jon said, raising a brow at her and grinning. “Think you can be on your best behavior that long?”

She smirked back at him. “Well, I’m used to disappointing my mother, and behaving is boring.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short update, and a little unsure about it, but I wanted to get something up before I move and start my new job!


	15. Age 14, Part 3

Dawn had barely broken when there was a knock on his solar. Ned frowned. Very few would seek an audience with him this early without something being gravely wrong. He himself wouldn’t even be awake this early if he had been able to sleep at all last night.

“Come in,” he called, standing from the chair by his fire and turning to face the door, tensing as he prepared for bad news, mind flying to Jon, where it had been most of the night.

He relaxed when Benjen slipped in quietly, giving his brother a tired smile as he stepped forward to give him a quick embrace.

“Poole told me you were awake,” Benjen said, taking a seat by the fire next to the one that Ned had just vacated. “What has the Lord of Winterfell up so early when he only just returned home yesterday?”

Ned sighed heavily as he sat down again. “The same thing that has made me lose sleep for last fourteen years. Jon.”

His brother’s brow rose. “We’ve only just got him back. Don’t tell me there’s trouble with him so soon.”

“Not trouble,” he shook his head. “At least none that hasn’t already been there. It’s just… the boy seems so sad and ill-at-ease, even now. You should have seen him at the feast we held for him last night. He snuck out before it was half over. I could kill Connington for how he’s allowed Jon to be treated in King’s Landing.”

“You should have marched on King’s Landing years ago to get him back,” Benjen told him with a scowl. “He should never have grown up outside of the North. Connington would never have had the guts to kill a royal heir.”

Ned dropped his head in his hand and massaged his temples. He and Benjen had been having this argument for years. Benjen had been livid when Ned had told him Connington had kept Jon as a hostage against them, and he and Ned had nearly come to blows over Ned’s decision to stay North. Benjen was not swayed by Ned’s insistence that their bannermen would not ride south for another bloody war, adamant that their people loved Lyanna and would proudly go to war for her son.

Secretly, Ned had thought Benjen was right on that point. He had ridden to war with his bannermen against Aerys, and, while they were angry over Rickard and Brandon’s deaths and the call for his own head, they were outraged by Lyanna’s abduction. Most were far from convinced by the love story celebrated in the South, sure that Rhaegar had lured her away from her family under some pretense of saving her from the Mad King and seduced her when she was most vulnerable.

Ned himself wasn’t sure how much love had really been between Lyanna and Rhaegar. It hadn’t seemed right to press her when her pregnancy was taking so much of a toll on her health and afterwards, well, there had been no time.

He had had to see Lyanna die before his eyes, though, and had only held Jon’s fragile life in his hands for a few precious moments before Connington had ripped him away. If there was even the smallest chance that his actions would cause his nephew’s life to be snuffed out, Ned would not take it, much to Benjen’s ire.

It had been Cat, his at the time new wife, who had finally gotten Benjen to come around. She had taken him to the nursery, sat him down, and placed Robb in his arms.

“Drop him on the floor,” she had told him, unflinching at his look of horror. “There’s only the smallest of chance that a fall from this height would kill him.”

Benjen had taken the point and apologized to Ned, though the idea of Lyanna’s son in King’s Landing still chafed. Ned was sure his younger brother blamed him for failing to return with both Lyanna and her son hale and whole. That had likely been why Benjen had asked his permission to join the Night’s Watch after he had come to terms with Ned’s decision to not march on King’s Landing.

Unable to bear losing his brother after losing so much of his family already but not wanting to deny his brother entirely, Ned had bartered a compromise, promising to negotiate with the Night’s Watch to establish a Stark holding in the New Gift to settle and work the land, as well as aid in the defense of the Wall if need be. It had taken all of eight years to complete, but Lyanna’s Holdfast had been built and within two years, the lands in the New Gift were already producing a plentiful bounty.

“Where were you yesterday?” he asked instead of rehashing an old argument, particularly when his own blood boiled with the knowledge of just how Jon had been treated all these years. “I thought you were going to make it for the feast.”

Benjen shook his head. “Wildlings. More and more of them have been venturing south of the Wall. We came across them not long after we left the Holdfast, but they delayed us by a couple of days. We had to make sure there were no stragglers that would attack the nearby villages. Have you taken him down yet?”

“No,” Ned replied. “I thought you’d want to be there.”

“I do,” his brother said before giving him a sidelong glance. “What’s he like, other than sad and uncomfortable?”

Ned smiled sadly. “He looks just like Lyanna,” he began, remembering tearing up when he first saw Jon in the godswood in the Red Keep. He had looked so much like his sister that it had hurt. “He’s quiet, though I’m not sure if that’s his nature or because he’s not used to speaking very much. He’s intelligent,” he said, smirking. “You should have seen him upstage Aegon when we were discussing the ironborn problem. He dislikes the games of court, though, despite growing up surrounded by them, and he’s very talented with a sword.”

“How is he on a horse?” Benjen asked with a fond smile. “Lyanna and Brandon both could ride like the wind.”

“Manderly gifted him with a garron before we left White Harbor,” he replied, not letting his bitterness at that fact show. He had meant to gift Jon with a horse, but Manderly had beaten him to the punch. “He has good form, but never went faster than a trot, even when Robb egged him on.”

“He’ll get more comfortable here,” Benjen assured, sounding more confident than Ned felt. “He has people who care about him. And he never has to go back to King’s Landing.”

Ned winced at that. “Aegon or Rhaenys could still order him back,” he pointed out. Benjen gave him a sharp look. “I don’t think either of his siblings have his best interests at heart. If they think they can use him, they’ll take him back.”

“Then we don’t let them!” he retorted, eyes flashing. “He is our _nephew_ , Ned! _Lya’s son_! You can’t possibly let them take him again!”

“Do you think I want to?” Ned snapped, standing up and losing control of his temper in a way he never would have if he had had enough sleep. “Do you think I want to send the boy I _swore_ to love and protect back to that that viper’s den? Back to the place where he was neglected and, if rumors are to be believed, physically _abused_? What would you have me do? Declare war? We already did that and we _lost_. And this time, the Lannisters and Dorne would be against us, with the Tullys stuck in the middle with Edmure’s marriage. And if we lost again, all of us, _including_ Jon, would be executed as traitors.”

Benjen looked taken aback at his usually quiet brother’s tirade before he deflated. “You’re right. It’s just…”

Ned sighed and sat back down. “I know. All we can do is make sure he knows he always has a home here with people who care about him and don’t want to use him for anything.”

His brother snorted derisively. “If he can even believe that after his childhood.”

 

#

 

Jon rose fairly early the morning after the feast, somewhat apprehensive about settling into the day-to-day life of Winterfell, not knowing exactly where he was supposed to fit in. Robb had told him that the Starks broke their fast together in a smaller hall off of the Great Hall, and Jon was sure he was expected to attend as well. It was sure to be an inauspicious beginning to his first full day in Winterfell. 

His clothing, he had decided, was not suitable at all for the North. Not only were most of it far too formal, but it also wasn’t nearly warm enough for the climate. It was a strange thing for Jon, being cold. He didn’t mind it so much, but he knew that he would if he didn’t get any proper clothing, he’d probably get sick. That would be the height of embarrassment.

He chose a sturdy pair of thick black trousers that were only slightly worn, mostly because they had felt too hot to him in King’s Landing. They were a bit short, but his boots covered that so no one would notice. He was left a dilemma, though, as he tried to decide what top to where. He had worn the same doublet he had worn for the Manderlys to the feast last night, and as he surveyed everything else he had brought, everything felt too flashy.

It was a stupid thing to be upset about. He knew that. Gods, he never even gave his clothing a second thought until Aegon and Rhaenys had come to King’s Landing and, suddenly, everyone was _looking_ at him. Which was fine, because in King’s Landing, Rhaenys had ensured that he was dressed like her and Aegon, and he didn’t have to worry about dressing like a fool.

Now, though, he was in a place that was vastly different than King’s Landing, with clothing vastly unsuitable in every way possible, among vastly different people than those in the south who, if Jon were completely honest with himself, he was desperate to be accepted by.

And he was going to look like a fool on his very first day.

Jon took a deep breath and pushed away his dismay, resolved to make the best of what he had and address the problem later. He grabbed a heavy black velvet tunic with red flame embroidery, certain that it, like everything else, was far too formal for everyday wear, but it was probably the warmest thing he had. He didn’t even bother with a cloak. For one, it was, as Ser Oswell had feared, too thin for Winterfell. For two, he was sure that none of the Starks would be wearing cloaks to breakfast, and he was determined to not stand out more than necessary.

It was strange to walk out of his room and not find a Kingsguard, typically Oswell, waiting for him. Jon had insisted, though, that Ser Oswell not stand guard at his door at night. It had taken some argument, but he finally got the old knight to agree by saying that he would exhaust himself and he’d be no good to anyone. And honestly, with an entire continent between him and Viserys, Jon didn’t know what he would need protection from anyway.

Robb, Arya, Lady Stark, and little Rickon were already eating breakfast when he entered. Lady Stark was busy with making sure her youngest son didn’t make too big of a mess with his oatmeal, giving him a quick smile and nod before turning back to Rickon. Robb and Arya, though, both lit up when they saw him.

Jon felt gratified that two of his cousins, at least, genuinely seemed to like him.

Arya made a face at him as he sat down. “Why are you dressed all fancy?”

He tried to fight down his humiliation at the question, but he was sure his face was a bit flushed. He _knew_ his clothes were going to make him look foolish. “They’re all I really have,” he muttered as helped himself to some eggs and sausage. He looked up from his food long enough to see Robb shoot Arya a glare, that she missed entirely because her wide eyes, full of understanding and chagrin, were locked on Jon.

“That’s an easy problem to fix,” Robb stated confidently, clapping Jon on the shoulder and giving him a grin that diminished after a moment. “Though, I must confess that I don’t know who to speak with about that problem.”

Jon had to smile at his cousin’s confusion. He was positive that Robb had never given any thought about where his clothes came from. Arya, though, rolled her eyes at her brother before turning away from them both.

“Mother?” she said, calling Lady Stark’s attention away from Rickon and to them. “Jon needs new clothes.”

Jon’s face burned as Lady Stark’s blue eyes shifted to him and eyed his clothing critically. Mortified, he was a second away from opening his mouth to stammer an explanation, offer an apology, or protest his need for help, but she nodded curtly.

“He certainly does,” she remarked with a frown. “I should have realized your wardrobe would not be suitable. Mine certainly wasn’t when I first came to the North. I apologize for the oversight, my prince. I will have a new wardrobe made for you, but until it is ready, I will have the servants bring some of Robb’s things to your chambers for your use.”

The idea of _Lady Stark_ apologizing to _him_ for not having proper clothing was so absurd to him that it took him a moment to process her words. “My lady, you have nothing to apologize for!” he assured her in a rush. “But I would be very grateful for your help. I have the gold to pay for new clothing.”

“Nonsense, my prince,” she said, waving away his protests and giving him a smile. “You are our guest and, more importantly, you are family. We are more than capable of supporting you as we would any of our children.”

The more Lady Stark talked, the more Jon recognized her familiar gracious and polite mannerisms as those employed by all ladies in the south. It made him uneasy to realize that he hadn’t entirely escaped the courtly games he had hated so much in King’s Landing. Maybe he was reading too much into it, though. After all, Lady Stark was from the south and had probably just kept the mannerisms from her childhood.

“Thank you, Lady Stark,” he replied weakly, feeling out of sorts as he tried to figure out if she had an angle.

“You may call me Aunt Catelyn, if you wish, my prince,” she told him graciously. “You are my husband’s nephew and my children’s cousin. There is no need to be so formal with me.”

“Only if you call me Jon,” he said in a tone that was far lighter than his mood. He had stopped caring if people were tricking him into letting them use his first name. Honestly, so far, being a prince had been nothing but trouble anyway. He knew it came with certain privileges, but he’d really rather not have a title at all.

Robb and Arya, at least, seemed pleased with his exchange with their mother.

Arya gave both him and Robb a smug look as she turned back to them. “I’m sure you would have realized the easy answer before the day was out,” she told them in a faux prim voice. She gave Jon a kinder look as her tone turned normal. “Sometimes you just have to ask for help.”

Jon felt a surge of affection for his younger cousin but, before he could say anything else, Sansa walked in. Jon cringed internally when her eyes immediately found him. She was dressed nearly as formally as he was, in a deep blue dress made of some shiny, stiff material with frilly lace lining the neckline and sleeves.

She gave him a polite and perfect curtsey and a charming smile before taking a seat on the other side of Arya, pursing her lips in the direction of her younger sister, obviously irritated that she had managed to snag the seat next to Jon.

“Good morning, my prince,” she greeted over Arya’s head.

“Jon, please,” he said, giving her a nod in greeting before turning back to his food. He knew that he was being horribly rude, and that any goodwill he had earned with Lady Stark was probably ruined with the snubbing of her eldest daughter, but he didn’t think he could handle Sansa’s attentions. Not when he knew exactly what she was after.

Besides, Lady Stark should thank him. If she wanted Sansa to be a queen, she should concentrate her attentions on someone who wasn’t as dead set against being a king as Jon.

Sansa seemed put out but appeared to muster her energy to try again. Thankfully, Lord Stark chose that moment to stride in, a slightly taller, slightly leaner man striding in after him. 

“Uncle Benjen!” both Robb and Arya cried, rising and rushing over to the man Jon didn’t know. Sansa followed at a more sedate pace, and Rickon, who had managed to get free of his mother’s grasp, shot forward shortly after.

Jon rose as well, inching closer to get a look at his new uncle. Benjen looked a lot like Lord Stark, with the same dark hair and the same grey eyes. His face was a bit thinner, though, and a little less lined. Jon knew that Benjen Stark held a holdfast in Lord Stark’s name in the New Gift, mostly because Connington had been furious at the expansion of his uncle’s power and influence in the North. 

Benjen’s eyes found him, and the older man smiled at him sadly. Jon had quickly come to realize that everyone that had known and loved his mother smiled at him sadly. He wasn’t sure if it was just because he reminded them of her or if they knew that he was a poor consolation prize for her loss.

“Jon,” Benjen intoned, disentangling himself from his other nieces and nephews and closing the distance between them. He pulled him into a quick embrace before releasing him and giving him a slightly more upbeat smile. “Finally back where you belong.”

Jon had to stop himself from pointing out that he couldn’t be “back” where he belonged when he had never been here before. Instead, he focused on greeting his uncle for the first time. “I’m happy to meet another member of my family.”

“I’m afraid I’m the last Stark you’ll meet,” Benjen told him ruefully. “Though you do have a Targaryen great uncle at the Wall if you ever want to meet him. But you’ll find that our pack is strong even if it’s not as large as it should be.”

It took a moment for Jon to remember that his great-great grandfather’s brother had become a maester and taken the black. It startled him to realize that the old man was still alive.

“Your uncle and I came to borrow Jon,” Lord Stark was telling his children. He gave Jon a smile. “You’ll need a cloak where we’re going. It gets chilly down there.”

Something about his phrasing must have clued his children in to where they were going because something sober came over their faces. “I’ll get Jon one of mine,” Robb offered without hesitation. “His are all too thin.” 

“Thank you, Robb,” his father said. 

Jon shot his cousin a grateful smile as he left. Bran darted in the hall as Robb left, giving a shout of joy as he saw Benjen and throwing himself at his uncle.

“Uncle Benjen!”

Jon had to wonder if his cousins, barring Sansa, greeted everyone with such enthusiasm. He had never seen such a thing while living in King’s Landing. He couldn’t imagine his own siblings, or Daenerys or Viserys for that matter, greeting anyone so happily.

Lord Stark turned to him while Benjen was preoccupied with Bran. “How did you sleep, son?”

It wasn’t the first time his uncle had called him “son,” but Jon couldn’t help the thrill that ran through him at the word, no matter how much he tried to stamp down his hope that Lord Stark actually meant it.

“Very well, thank you,” he lied. He had barely slept at all, instead spending most of the night tossing and turning with nerves. Despite his desire to leave King’s Landing, he had never considered what that would actually _mean_. 

At least in King’s Landing, he knew what his place was. True, he may have hated that place, but at least he knew where he stood with everyone there, for the most part at least. Winterfell and the North were entirely alien to him.

Lord Stark gave him a knowing smile. “I didn’t sleep much either,” he confessed. Jon flushed for having been caught in a lie, but his uncle didn’t seem to mind. “You’ll settle in soon enough, though. We all want you to be happy here.”

Jon wasn’t really sure what being happy would actually feel like, but he wasn’t going to admit to that. Instead, he just smiled and nodded, thankful that Robb came back a moment later with a thick, fur-lined cloak draped over his arms.

“There we go!” Benjen declared, sweeping the cloak out of Robb’s arms and over Jon’s shoulders. “Nice and warm.”

Lord Stark nodded. “Good then. Let’s go.”

Jon followed the two older Starks out of the smaller hall and through the Great Hall to the courtyard. They turned left towards a short, squat tower and edged around an old lichyard, heading towards an imposing door of ironwood. Jon gulped a bit, feeling the somber atmosphere of his surroundings acutely as the heavy door creaked as it was opened. 

There was a torch lit in an iron sconce just inside the door, likely placed there for their use. Benjen grabbed it as they passed, holding it high as they continued their trek into what was surely the depths of Winterfell.

Lord Stark was right, Jon thought as he drew his borrowed cloak closer. It was colder the deeper they went. He kept his eyes locked on the torch in Benjen’s hand, half-afraid that the chill would extinguish it and they would be plunged into darkness.

They finally came to a stop in front of a statue of a woman. Jon stepped closer and his breath caught as he realized where his uncles had brought him.

His mother’s tomb.

Tears pricked his eyes as he studied her stone face, gazing hungrily at the effigy as if it would be able to give him the answers to questions he didn’t even understand.

Lord Stark shifted next to him, and he turned his head to see his uncle pull a blue flower from beneath his cloak and place it in one of the statue’s outstretched hands.

“Winter roses. They were her favorite,” Benjen explained quietly, face sad as he looked from Jon to Lyanna’s statue. “Stone could never do her justice. She was too vibrant to ever be captured in stone.”

Jon looked at the statue again. It wasn’t fair that this was all that was left of his lively mother. 

“I went south to bring her home,” Lord Stark said, breaking the silence that had settled around them. “When I found her pregnant, I promised I would bring you both home where you belonged. Instead I left with only her bones, and it took me fourteen years to finally bring you home. I can never hope to atone for such a failure.”

Jon jerked his head towards his uncle in shock, but Lord Stark had eyes only for Lyanna. Jon got the sense that he was asking more for his sister’s forgiveness than he was Jon’s. Still, since his mother was not here to offer forgiveness, Jon gave it instead.

“You were in an impossible position,” he stated, knowing enough from his history lessons and from listening in on Connington’s council meetings to know that. “I’m sure you did all you could to bring me to Winterfell.”

And Jon realized with a start that he believed that. In that moment, seeing his uncle’s tortured eyes as he looked at his sister’s image, Jon knew that Lord Stark wasn’t playing a game. He hadn’t fought to bring Jon to Winterfell because he wanted to gain a political advantage. He had fought to bring Jon to Winterfell because he had promised the sister he loved that he would take care of and protect her son.

The tears that had built in his eyes ever since he had seen his mother’s stone face finally spilled over at that, and he hastily wiped them away.

A comforting hand settled on his shoulder, and he looked up to see Benjen giving him an understanding look. “If we had known how terrible Connington and Viserys had been, we would have fought harder.”

Jon shook his head. “I’m here now,” he said, not knowing how he would feel if people had actually gotten hurt trying to get him away from King’s Landing. It hadn’t been _that_ bad after all.

“Yes, you are,” Ned agreed, giving him a tight smile. “And I didn’t bring you down here just to see your mother.” He walked around the statue and reached between the tomb and the wall of the grotto it was placed in, pulling out a bundled wrapped in black cloth. “I was afraid Connington would take it from you so I smuggled it out of King’s Landing. This was the safest place I could think to put it.”

He handled the bundle to Jon. The weight surprised him. It wasn’t overly large, but felt as if it whatever it was was made of solid stone. What truly startled him, though, was the heat that had seeped into the thick cloth from whatever was hidden within. He pushed aside the cloth and gasped as he instantly recognized what it was.

He had seen one before, of course, but it had been red and orange.

This dragon egg, though— _his_ dragon egg—was a matte grey with veins of black.

And unlike Aegon’s, this egg was nearly painfully hot.


	16. Age 14, Part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter to give you a look at what's going on with the rest of the Targaryens.

It was mid-morning when Olenna entered Maegor’s Holdfast and made her way towards the queen’s chambers. Thankfully, it was the Hightower boy standing guard at her granddaughter’s door. She was in no mood to deal with tiresome knights with the news her maid had told her.

She entered without knocking, frowning at the sight of her granddaughter-in-law standing with her daughter-in-law next to the closed door that led to Margaery’s bedchamber. They cut their whispering off as soon as she walked in.

Olenna raised an eyebrow. “Was I to be the last to find out?” she asked, seething at the fact that _Cersei_ had been told before her. “Have I finally become obsolete in my old age? Perhaps you think I am too senile to be trusted with such sensitive information?”

Alerie at least had the decency to look ashamed, but Cersei gave her a challenging stare. The Lannister woman had been a thorn in the Queen of Thorns side ever since her idiotic son had proposed the betrothal to Tywin Lannister. 

The lioness had come to Highgarden dressed in all black, as if mourning for her treacherous brother sent to serve on the Wall. Olenna may have been of the opinion that Aerys had deserved a sword in his back, but that didn’t mean the traitor that didn’t deserve to pay the price. It was only Tywin’s gold that had saved Jaime Lannister’s neck.

Of course, Willas had worshipped Cersei from the beginning. Her grandson had been a boy of three and ten and had been told he was to marry the golden beauty. Olenna had forgiven him the sin, as he was far from the first young boy to be turned by a pretty face. Thankfully he hadn’t made a fool of himself because of it. Instead treating Cersei with quiet respect.

What Olenna could _not_ forgive, though, was the fact that Cersei had usurped her role as Willas’s confidante and counsel.

“Cersei was here because Margaery invited her yesterday for to break her fast with her here,” Alerie explained, wringing her hands. “She sent a servant for me when she found Margaery in her bedchamber.”

“She was sitting by the fire surrounded by bloody sheets,” Cersei stated, giving her a baleful stare. “I figured she could use someone who would focus on the fact that she lost a baby rather than the fact that she lost a _royal_ baby.”

Olenna gave her a glare of her own. “I don’t see how the blame for this royal mess we’re in is any of _my_ fault. It was your scheming that had us rushing into this marriage. I told Willas that this was a bad idea. We should have waited.”

“If we had waited, Aegon would have married his sister or his aunt or ones of his Dornish cousins,” she shot back. “We would have lost our chance!”

“Spare me the impatience of youth,” she grumbled, shaking her head. She had thought she had taught Willas better, but he had ended up sharing the same short-sighted that all men fell victim to. “A long betrothal would have solved this problem. And if the weak Dornish king happened to die in that time, we could have still presented Prince Jon with a maiden bride.”

“The prince would have never married me,” Margaery said, opening the door suddenly and leaning against the doorframe.

“Margaery!” her mother cried in alarm, rushing to the queen’s side. “You should be resting.”

She waved Alerie’s protests aside. “Help me to the settee?” she begged. Cersei and Alerie together guided her gently down on the settee by the fire, with Alerie pulling a thick, knitted blanket over her.

“And why wouldn’t the prince have married you?” Olenna demanded, settling down in an armchair near her. “You’re the most beautiful and charming young woman close to him in age and station. Who else would he marry?”

Margaery huffed a weak laugh at that and rolled her head to look at her grandmother with eyes that seemed wiser than her years. “Oh, Grandmama, Prince Jon doesn’t care about beauty or station, and he hates the courtly games I am so good at. Aegon was as good as I was going to get.”

Olenna frowned, but decided to leave the topic of the prince alone for now. “I wouldn’t worry, my dear,” she said kindly, giving her a grandmotherly smile. “You are young. There will be other babies. Beautiful little boys and girls that you will love with all your heart.”

And if the gods were good, they would all have pale silver hair and purple eyes so no one would ever doubt that they were true Targaryens.

 

#

 

Rhaenys stalked to her brother’s chambers, not sure if she was more annoyed at Egg for missing the Small Council meeting or with Stannis for causing her so much of a headache. Her annoyance was exacerbated by the fact that she actually was starting to _agree_ with that onerous man. She was hoping Aegon would convince her that their plan made sense.

“Oberyn is with him,” her Uncle Lewyn told her, letting her pass. She didn’t answer him, peeved at him as well for not showing at the meeting either.

She narrowed her eyes as she entered. Of course, Oberyn was with him.

“Are we having a family boycott of council meetings now?” she asked airily as the door closed behind her. She gave them both unimpressed looks. “I would appreciate it in the future if you both gave me some warning so that I am not stuck looking the fool in front of the other members of the council.”

“I am sure someone as cunning as you would never appear the fool,” her uncle assured her with a flash of a sharp smile before his face smoothed into a serious expression. “I’m afraid your brother just received some grave news.”

“Margaery miscarried,” Aegon told her shortly. 

Rhaenys felt a pang of sympathy for the young queen for the loss, but she knew Aegon wasn’t sorry to lose a child as much as he was to lose a potential heir. “One miscarriage does not mean she won’t bear you a son. Women miscarry all the time for various reasons. She is young yet.”

“The delay will cost us,” her brother argued, leaning back in his desk chair and looking like the petulant child she grew up with. “My rule will never be secure without a son. Not when half the realm would prefer Jon on the throne.”

“Our younger brother isn’t the problem with your reign at the moment,” she stated, her earlier annoyance coming back. “The iron born are. You know they’ve begun raiding the Reach? No, I guess you don’t. You weren’t at the council meeting to hear it!”

“The iron born will have to wait,” Aegon replied flippantly.

Rhaenys pursed her lips. “The Reach is our strongest supporters right now, thanks to your marriage. How would it look if we just let them suffer these attacks?”

Stannis Baratheon’s words rang in her head. “If this is how the king treats his friends,” he had sneered in that disdainful way of his. “I see no benefit to friendship with the crown.”

“I _need_ an heir!” Aegon snapped. “ _Especially_ if the realm is to wage war on the Iron Islands! I can’t risk it! Right now, if any of the lords wanted to conspire to depose me, they’d have to invent a reason to meet in person and be easier to detect. Sending them off to war, though, would be far to great an opportunity.”

“Besides,” Oberyn cut in with a wicked smirk, “if we delay until there’s an heir, a war could be a perfect way to get rid of any other contenders.”

“That would be easy enough,” Rhaenys scoffed. “Your daughters tell me that Viserys is next to useless at weaponry.”

“I wasn’t just referring to your uncle,” he said meaningfully, shooting Aegon a knowing look.

She sucked in a sharp breath and glared at her brother. “Please tell me you aren’t planning to have Jon killed,” she said in a dangerously calm voice.

“I am keeping all of our options open,” Aegon said firmly. “Need I remind you that _I_ am the king, sister?”

“King and kinslayer,” she mocked nastily. “How poetic.”

“It’s not kinslaying if someone else kills him,” he replied with a shrug. “And it’s just an option. I must do what I have to do to secure my line.”

_Take care of your siblings, firefly_.

Rhaenys shook her head in frustration. “You know, they say our grandfather’s paranoia about Father usurping him was what drove his madness in the end,” she said, turning to leave before looking back at her brother. “I hope that’s not something that runs in the family.”

 

#

 

Dany sighed into her dinner as her new husband laughed at something a knight she didn’t know said. She glanced over him at Lady Serra, hoping that maybe her good sister would take pity on her, but the Lady of Storm’s End had her head bent towards her younger sister, who was only slightly older than Dany herself and who Dany _knew_ had come to Storm’s End with the aim of catching Lord Renly’s eye.

Dany was quite sure that, even had Aegon not arranged her own marriage to Renly, Lady Sybal would have no chance of winning his affections.

Daenerys had hated Storm’s End from the moment she had laid eyes on it. She had expected the ancient and storied castle to be beautiful, but compared to Dragonstone, with it’s intricately carved dragons, it was painfully dull. She supposed some might like the grandness of the structure or appreciate the smooth, curving great wall, but she didn’t see it.

Even the beaches were wrong. Where Dragonstone’s beaches were covered in smooth, oily black stones, the beaches near Storm’s End had course, yellow-white sand that Dany had quickly come to hate because it got _everywhere_.

And the people certainly hadn’t endeared her to the place. Sure, they had been polite enough, but she knew they didn’t want her here. They saw her as Aegon’s spy, sent to ensure that the Stormlands were not planning another rebellion, and it rankled them.

They needn’t worry about _that_ , though, she thought bitterly as she carefully cut her chicken. Aegon hadn’t sent her here as a spy. He would have to trust her first. He had sent her here to get rid of her.

She shot a glare at Renly, who didn’t spare her one glance. She wondered if Aegon had known about his husbands… _proclivities_ … when he made the betrothal. If he hadn’t, she was sure he would find it to be a stroke of luck, but she doubted Aegon, or Rhaenys, for that matter, ever left anything to luck.

Dany sighed as her eye caught on the two young sons of Lord and Lady Baratheon, her good nephews she supposed. She had thought that even if her husband would never love her, she would at least have children who would. That would never happen if her husband wouldn’t even _touch_ her.

She told herself she wouldn’t cry. She was a dragon. She would rise above this.

 

#

 

Viserys screamed in rage as soon as he was inside of his chambers and threw a nearby vase at a wall. It crashed with a satisfying sound, but it didn’t alleviate his rage. He seethed as he paced in his solar.

How dare his nephew, that son of a filthy Dornish whore, send him to rot here? How _dare_ that dirty half-breed force a dragon to marry his slut of a cousin?

And those bastards! Those demonic harpies who hounded his every step, lashing out at him if he did or said something they didn’t like.

He had made an innocent remark at his wedding feast about some woman’s dress, and the the bastard girl that looked like a boy had wrapped a whip around his wrist and pulled him out of his chair in front of the entire hall.

And nobody had protested! He was a dragon! He was the only dragon left! How _dare_ they mock him?

They would pay, he decided feverishly. They would all pay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone was wondering, the tourney where Willas's leg was crushed did not occur in this timeline, and Oberyn was otherwise occupied with Elia and her kids being alive anyway so he wouldn't have been there if it had.


	17. Age 14, Part 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, but I felt like I haven't given you anything in ages and wanted to get this up! Hope you enjoy!

“Don’t pout,” Jon teased her gently as he sat at his desk mulling over a letter from his sister. Arya scowled at him as she fingered the dragon egg in her hands. The scales were smooth and hard, but it felt stone cold to her. Not hot like Jon always said it was to him.

It probably wasn’t entirely proper for her to be hiding from the septa in his solar, but that was part of the reason she had chosen to hide here. The other reason was because Jon’s rooms were off on their own in the wing usually reserved for visiting dignitaries.

“I’m not pouting,” she lied.

Jon put his letter down and focused on her, giving her such an understanding look that it felt like something was squeezing her heart. Even though he had been in Winterfell for less than three moon-turns, she didn’t think anyone had ever really _understood_ the way he did.

“What happened with the septa?” he asked.

She absently traced a grey vein on the egg, not wanting to meet his eyes as she relayed the incident. “We were doing sums, which I’m _good_ at,” she insisted hotly. “ _Sansa_ is awful at them. _Jeyne_ is terrible at them. But _I’m_ good at them.” She paused there, caught up in the injustice of it all once again.

“What happened when you were doing sums?” Jon asked, voice breaking through the silence. He didn’t sound exasperated, though, like Robb would have, or even Bran. And he definitely didn’t have the frustrated tone her mother sometimes got the few times Arya had complained about Septa Mordane to her.

She focused back on her tale. “I finished early because _I’m good at sums_ ,” she reiterated, jaw tightening in anger. “Sansa, Jeyne, and Beth were still working, though, so I was just sitting there quietly, bored and wondering where Bran was climbing today because Maester Luwin was working with Father this morning. And Septa just whacks me for no reason!”

“What?” Jon cried, eyes flashing and sweeping over her quickly. “Are you hurt?”

“It was just my hand,” Arya assured him, quickly realizing that Jon’s experience in King’s Landing probably made him think it was worse than what it was. “It stung, but I’ll be fine. But then she grabs my paper, tells me my writing looks like chicken scratch, and asks me why I can’t write neatly like _Sansa_! Then she threw my work into the fire without even checking the problems, which were all _right_ because _I’m good at sums_!”

Jon at least had the decency to look outraged on her behalf. Sansa had just stared at her, blue eyes flickering between her and the septa nervously.

“She can’t treat you like that!” he exclaimed.

Arya rolled her eyes. “She treats me like that _all the time_ ,” she scoffed. “Nothing I do is ever good enough. Sansa’s always _perfect_ and I’m always messing up.”

“What does your mother say about all of this?” Jon asked with a frown.

“She doesn’t care,” she muttered darkly. “She always takes Septa Mordane’s side. Mother doesn’t think I can do anything right either.”

“Well, _I_ think you can do plenty right, for what it’s worth,” he told her with a sheepish shrug. “I would’ve been lost around here if it weren’t for you.”

She gave him a half smile. “Robb’s helped you more than me.”

“Robb’s not as easy to find as you,” he replied before giving her a mischievous smirk. “Maybe that’s because Robb doesn’t use my solar for his hiding place.”

“What would Robb hide from?” Arya asked with a snort before giving him a pleading look. “You don’t mind me hiding here, do you?”

Jon smiled and shook his head. “I wish you didn’t have to, but you’re welcome to hide here whenever you want.”

She beamed before returning to her idle examination of the dragon egg. She heard his papers rustle as he went back to his letter. She frowned, though, as she realized how odd it was that his sister was writing him. She had been so caught up in her own problems that she hadn’t given it a second thought before.

“Why is Rhaenys writing you?” she asked, figuring she and Jon were beyond the manners that would call the question rude.

“I have no idea,” he answered in honest exasperation. “She’s telling me all these things that have happened in King’s Landing since I’ve left. I’m not sure if she’s gloating that I’m so far away or if she thinks I care to keep track of court or if she’s just bored.”

“Maybe she wants your opinion?” Arya suggested.

“Since when has anyone cared about _my_ opinion? Outside of you Starks, that is,” he added quickly, obviously catching her indignant look.

She thought about it for a minute. “Well, you said that Stannis Baratheon had seemed interested in your opinion,” she pointed out. “And Lady Olenna and Queen Margaery, too, when you told the Queen of Thorns that you didn’t care what she thought about you.” 

Arya wasn’t going to forget about that story anytime soon. She didn’t really know anything about the so-called Queen of Thorns or her granddaughter, who was apparently Queen of the Seven Kingdoms now, but she vaguely pictured an older and more noble version of Septa Mordane being told off by Jon, and it had sent her into stitches.

“They didn’t actually care about my opinion,” Jon replied with a grimace. “Stannis just wanted to make Aegon look bad, and Lady Olenna was seeing if I’d be willing to go along with a plot against Aegon. Any time anyone wants my opinion, it has something to do with Aegon.”

“Maybe Rhaenys is just checking up on you for the king then?”

Jon didn’t look satisfied with the answer. “Then why give me information? Why tell me that Stannis is goading the Small Council about Aegon’s refusal to call the kingdoms to war against the iron born? Why let me know that Margaery lost a babe? It doesn’t make any sense.”

Arya frowned, wishing she could be more help. Robb probably would have known what to say. “She’s your sister,” she said with a helpless shrug. “Maybe she cares enough that she doesn’t want you to be caught off guard by anything.”

Jon sighed. “What are they plotting that is so bad that she actually feels compelled to care about me, though?”

White hot anger surged through her once more at Jon’s sad and resigned tone. What gave the stupid Targaryens the right to treat their own _brother_ like this? Even Sansa, the sibling Arya got along worse with, would _never_ actively try to hurt her. Not seriously, at least. Nothing more than childish pranks, and usually those were done by Arya _against_ Sansa.

Dragons must have been awful creatures, she decided, glaring down at the dragon egg in her hands.

Good thing her and Jon were both wolves.

 

#

 

Sansa hummed lightly over her stitching as she carefully poked the needle through the thin cloth, the thread making a dragging sound as she pulled it through. It had been hard to find the golden thread. Well, it would have been easy if she had asked her mother or Septa Mordane, but she doubted either would help her once they knew what it was for.

She had found just enough, though, even if she had stitched three golden roses instead of the one that was on his house sigil. He was the _third_ son, after all, so it only made sense. Besides, the three roses stitched in the corner of the handkerchief looked better than just one, she thought. The pattern looked more complete with one large rose in the corner with two smaller ones on each side.

“Sansa?” a voice broke through her concentration, making her look up in carefully concealed annoyance.

_A proper lady is always amiable and polite_ , Septa’s voice rang in her head.

Her proper mask slipped in shock as she realized it was Prince Jon standing awkwardly in the doorway of the library. She tried to school her features into something more polite, but she never really know what to make of the prince and it made her unsure of herself.

Septa seemed to think that the prince was a bad influence, but mother had been very approving of him. Robb and Arya loved him, of course. Bran liked him, but Bran trailed after Ser Oswell and Loras more than he trailed after Prince Jon.

Sansa hadn’t really had a chance to know much about him, but what she had seen had reminded her of her father more than anything else. That confused her. She loved her father, of course, but weren’t princes supposed to be gallant and noble and sweep the fair maiden off their feet?

“Jon,” she greeted, barely catching herself before saying his title. He had correctly her many times for calling him “prince.” 

“Could I speak with you?” he asked tentatively.

Sansa was even more surprised. He actually wanted to speak with _her_? She had been sure that he didn’t care much for her. He never sought her out, he rarely acknowledged her at meals unless he had to, and he was friends with Arya and Arya _hated_ her.

“Of course,” she said, setting aside her needlework as he came further into the library, taking a seat to her right. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Ser Oswell lurking outside like Jon’s watchful white shadow.

Jon raised an eyebrow at the green handkerchief and golden embroidery, and Sansa flushed in embarrassment. “I wanted to try sewing flowers, and I thought he might appreciate a reminder of his family,” she said, trying to save face.

“I’m sure he’ll like it,” he told her quietly, giving her a kind smile.

She gave him a hesitant smile back, relieved that he hadn’t made fun of her. “What did you want to talk about?” she asked, feeling a bit more confident.

“Arya came to see me this morning,” he said, and she blanched.

Of course it was about Arya. Why else would he seek her out? What had she supposedly done _now_? She had barely spoken to Arya this morning, too worried about getting her sums right. Arya was two years younger than her and was already better with numbers than she was. She hadn’t even had _time_ to do anything to Arya.

“What is she blaming me for _now_?” Sansa asked petulantly, forgetting for a moment that it wasn’t Robb or her father in front of her, but the _crown prince_.

Jon blinked and frowned. “She’s not blaming you for anything,” he told her. “She told me that Septa Mordane was very unfair to her this morning.”

“Oh, that,” she said, her face clearing in relief. “Septa Mordane is always like that.”

His frown only deepened at that. “Arya told me that she tossed her work in the fire and rapped her knuckles without even checking her work.”

Sansa chewed her lip and looked down at her lap. “Septa says that Arya needs to be treated harshly or she won’t be a good wife and mother when the time comes because she’s too willful. Lords want their ladies to be polite and obedient.”

Jon was silent at her answer, and she peeked up at him through her eyelashes. She winced at the icy rage in his eyes. She had said something wrong. What was it? What had she done to anger him?

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, cringing internally at her own voice.

She heard him sigh before he moved, startling her by sitting next to her on the settee and resting a comforting hand on her shoulder. She could tell by the stiffness of his posture that he wasn’t exactly comfortable with the contact.

“I’m not angry at _you_ , Sansa. You’ve done nothing wrong,” he assured her. “I just don’t agree with how the septa has been teaching you and Arya.”

Sansa furrowed her brow at that. “What…?”

“Sansa, how many noble ladies have you met?” he asked.

She frowned at that. “Not many,” she admitted sheepishly. “Whenever Father’s banners come to Winterfell, their wives usually stay home. There’s Mother, obviously, and Lady Mormont. And I met Uncle Edmure’s wife Lady Nymeria when we visited Riverrun.”

Jon gave her a knowing look. “Do any of those ladies strike you as ‘polite and obedient’?” 

Her eyes widened at the thought of anyone calling Lady Mormont or Lady Nymeria either “polite” or “obedient.” Even her mother, the epitome of ladylike in Sansa’s eyes, wasn’t really all that polite or obedient at all times. Sure, she would never go against her father, but Sansa had never really seen it as her mother _obeying_ her father.

“But Septa Mordane…” she said weakly, feeling as if the entire world had suddenly shifted.

“I don’t think the septa understands as much as she pretends to,” Jon told her. “Just… don’t take everything she says as absolute truth.”

She nodded absently, so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t even notice Jon leaving.

 

#

 

“Why are your sisters taught by a septa?” Jon asked Robb later that day, once his cousin was free from his duties as Heir of Winterfell. They were in Robb’s chambers, lazing about as they waited for dinner. Loras was with them as well, ostensibly as Jon’s guard, but mostly because Jon had gotten tired of seeing the other boy looking so lonely.

Robb shrugged, raising his head up from the bed he was lounging on. “I don’t know. Isn’t that who normally teaches girls?”

Loras snorted from his place by the fire. “My grandmother would have had a fit if my sister’s education had been left to a septa. What would they know about what a noble lady needs to know?”

That was something that Jon hadn’t considered. How many noblewomen actually became septas? And how many of the ones that did, did so _willing_ and not because they had to?

“But you follow the old gods,” Jon told Robb. “Why would your father allow a septa to teach the girls?”

“I think Father lets Mother decide most things about the girls,” Robb replied, sitting up as his face took on a more considering look. “And Mother still follows the Seven. We were raised to follow both, but I think only Sansa and Bran ever go to the sept anymore. Rickon’s too little and you know how Arya is.”

“Why don’t you still go?” Loras asked in curiosity.

Robb shrugged again. “I’m going to be Lord of Winterfell someday. No one in the North save maybe the Manderlys would be keen to have a liege lord who followed the Seven.”

“Does Uncle Ned plan on marrying the girls outside of the North, then?” Jon questioned with a frown.

“I am fairly certain that Father wouldn’t trust anyone south of the Neck with any of our kin,” Robb said wryly. “Bad things tend to happen to our family in the South.”

His cousin met his eyes, and Jon quickly looked away. He was very much aware of the Starks’ recent history in the South.

“Then why in the world is he allowing his daughters to be educated by a southern woman sworn in service to a southern religious order?” Loras said incredulously, making Jon’s point for him. “Your mother would have been a better instructor, even if she is also from the South. Does being Lady of Winterfell keep her that busy?”

“I don’t know,” Robb said thoughtfully. “Perhaps I should bring this up with Father?”

He seemed far from sure at the idea, which Jon thought was a little ridiculous. “I’m sure Uncle Ned would be happy to know that you are looking out for your sisters’ futures and the reputation of Winterfell.”

Robb’s face cleared at that and he nodded more confidently. “You’re right. But you know, _you_ could voice your concerns to Father or Mother as well,” he told him, seeing right through him. “They’re not going to be insulted.”

Jon shook his head. “I don’t want it to seem like I’m some nosy prince trying to but in and tell them out to run Winterfell or their household. I just don’t like seeing the girls suffer.”

Until that afternoon, he would have said he didn’t like seeing _Arya_ suffer. And while he still preferred the younger girl’s company, his conversation with Sansa had shown him that maybe she was suffering as well, in a different, less obvious, way than Arya. She may not have been his favorite cousin, but she was still family in a way that his Targaryen kin would never be.

Robb gave him an understanding smile. “I’ll speak to Father,” he promised. Jon opened his mouth, but his cousin interrupted him before he could speak. “And I won’t say anything about you, I swear.”

Jon gave him a grateful smile. He didn’t know what he would do without Robb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My personal head canon is that Catelyn left the girls' education to Septa Mordane because she wasn't really raised as a lady (rather Hoster raised her as his heir) and didn't really know what was the proper education for a lady.


	18. Age 15, Part 1

Catelyn smiled down at the practice yard, where Robb and Jon were helping Bran with his archery. A year ago, Bran would have lost patience with his bow and would have run off to go climbing. Of course, a year ago, Robb would have been more focused on his own training than with Bran’s, having feeling the weight of being Ned’s heir acutely.

Arya was watching her brothers and cousin carefully from the edge of the practice yard, a bow in her own hand as she patiently waited for Bran to done so she could have her turn. Sansa had turned away from Rickson long enough to had murmur something to her to stop her from fidgeting too much, but her impatience was clearly visible.

It had been Ned who had convinced her to allow Arya to train in archery, reasoning that it would give her an outlet for her excessive energy and increase her focus. Catelyn had been against it at first, appalled at the idea of a lady training in any martial arts, but had relented when Ned had pointed out that, if she was anything like Lyanna, she would find a way to do it on her own.

Catelyn hadn’t been able to argue, not when Ned so rarely mentioned his sister that doing so showed how strongly he felt about this. Besides, she thought, her eyes sliding back to the boys, she was sure that, had she refused, Arya would have had a willing conspirator in teaching her archery or swordplay.

Her eyes focused in on her good nephew. Jon Targaryen was nothing at all like she had expected when Ned told her he planned on returning with him to Winterfell at all costs. He was nothing like any other Targaryen she knew, either personally or by reputation. Honestly, the person he reminded her most of was Ned.

She knew that she had him to thank for the changes in her children. When Ned had approached her about _Robb’s_ concerns about the girls’ education, she had known that they had really be _Jon’s_ concerns. She knew that Ned knew it too. 

She confessed at first she had been annoyed. Not only at Jon attempting to assert his will on her household, but also at him hiding behind Robb. She had swallowed her protests, though, and had been at Ned’s side when he had sat down with each of their daughters and asked them about their septa.

After listening to Sansa and Arya, though, all she had felt was horror and shame and an overwhelming gratitude towards the young prince who had seen a wrong being done to her children that she had been completely blind to.

_“I_ promise _I try, Father,” Arya pleaded with Ned, grey eyes spilling over with tears. Catelyn’s eyes widened at that. She hadn’t seen Arya cry since she was six years old. “Septa always tells me I’m not good enough, though! She said that nobody will want to marry someone who asks too many questions or who can’t make dainty stitches or who doesn’t do as they’re told! Why would I want to marry anybody if that’s what they expect anyway?” she finished hotly, wiping her hears away with the back of her hands._

‘Sweet Seven,’ _Catelyn thought as Ned was quick to crouch in front of their youngest daughter and wipe away her tears with a proper handkerchief before pulling her into a tight embrace. It was no wonder that Arya had always been vocally against marriage if those were the thoughts Septa Mordane was putting into her head._

Sansa had been worse. Learning that her perfect little lady, the child she worried _least_ for because she seemed so calm and sweet and _good_ , was so anxious about being a perfect obedient lady that she filled her head with silly fantasies of gallant knights and gracious lords to cope, was enough to make Catelyn’s head spin.

_“Septa says that being good leads to a happy life,” Sansa had told them dutifully, looking between Ned and her with a puckered brow. “If we honor the gods, follow our duties, and mind our manners, then we will be blessed by the gods as a reward. I try to get Arya to be good, but she just spoils everything.”_

Catelyn knew that if her little girl had kept that attitude, she would likely have _not_ have had a happy life. The real world would have crushed her dreams and left her deeply dissatisfied with her lot in life. And that was _if_ she married a good and decent lord who cared for her. And though Catelyn knew that Ned and her would try their best on that front, there were no guarantees.

After those meetings, Catelyn had taken charge of her daughters’ education and Septa Mordane had been released from their service to return to her order in King’s Landing. Thankfully, Maester Luwin had graciously agreed to step in and continue the girls’ more academic lessons, such as history, mathematics, and geography. Between running the household and the girls’ lessons, her time was being spread preciously thin.

Perhaps a governess would be appropriate. A _properly vetted_ governess with real knowledge over what skills were necessary to be a proper lady. Sansa was growing up rapidly, after all, and Catelyn shuddered to think how hapless she would be if placed in an environment with untrustworthy people. Arya, at least, would be slightly better off in that situation. Her wolf girl was suspicious of nearly everyone, including _her_.

Then again, perhaps she hadn’t earned Arya’s trust, Catelyn thought sadly. How many times had she brushed aside her complaints about the septa?

“You look worried,” Ned’s voice broke through her thoughts as he approached her, looking down at the practice yard with a frown of his own, likely thinking that was the cause of her mood.

She shook her head and smiled at her husband. “I’m not worried,” she assured him. “Just thinking about the recent changes at Winterfell.”

Ned’s grim face lightened briefly as his eyes shifted to his sister’s son. If nothing else, Catelyn was grateful that Jon’s presence in Winterfell had lifted the heavy burden that had been on her husband’s shoulders since he had left the boy in King’s Landing. 

He let out a loud sigh, though, as his face turned somber once more. “I’m calling the banners to Winterfell,” he told her, sending a dagger of fear into her heart. 

She had known it would come sooner or later. The ironborn were growing bolder with each day as King Aegon refused to raise his armies to bring them to heel.

“Why now?” she asked, needing to know what new information had prompted his decision. Until now, the ironborn had been content to raid the more fertile lands of the Reach and the Riverlands.

“Lord Ryswell and Lord Flint report sightings of ironborn longships in Blazewater Bay,” he said. “They haven’t attempted to make the shore yet, but we need to be ready when they do.”

She considered that for a moment, glancing back down at the boys in the practice yard. “What will the king think?”

“Gods take the king!” Ned seethed in a harsh whisper. She supposed she was grateful that he at least had the good sense to speak his treasonous words in a low voice. “He should have done something about the ironborn when Balon refused to swear fealty to him.”

She sighed. As a daughter of Riverrun, she knew understood better than most what grew out of the Old Way of the Iron Islands that Balon Greyjoy wanted to bring back. Ned was right to face them head on now rather than wait for the king, even if it may not have looked the best from a political standpoint. The more pressing concern, though, was the ironborn, not the opinion of Aegon Targaryen.

“When will the banners arrive?” she asked, not commenting on the Targaryen regime currently reigning in King’s Landing. She may not have had the icy hatred she had seen in Ned’s eyes when he spoke of King Aegon, but she did not believe that his actions had not lived up to his title thus far.

“Within the fortnight,” he informed her. He looked down at the practice yard. “Bran and Jon will be attending the execution tomorrow.”

“Bran is too young!” Catelyn protested immediately, not wanting to admit her sweet little boy was growing up. After a beat, she added, “And Jon has been through enough in his life without witnessing a beheading!”

She never would have imagined that she would have grown protective of her husband’s nephew. Though she sympathized with her husband’s grief, she had always seen Jon Targaryen as a pall over their marriage, a son that Ned had had stolen from him and that could never be replaced no matter how many children she gave him. And in the beginning, a small part of her had even blamed Lyanna Stark for the foolishness that had gotten Brandon killed.

Catelyn had felt guilty at such thoughts when Ned had told her what he knew about Jon’s time in King’s Landing. And after seeing the positive changes Jon had caused in her children, her husband, and her good brother, she felt downright ashamed.

“Bran is the same age as Robb was at his first execution,” Ned told her mildly before sighing heavily, “and I’m afraid that Jon will be put through more in his life than any of us want. But he is the crown prince and he must understand the responsibility that comes with authority.”

She frowned at that but didn’t disagree. Like it or not, the young man who had seemed to become so integral to the heart of Winterfell in just one short year, could very well become king someday.

 

#

 

“You’re being quiet,” Robb commented, steering his horse to trot along next to Jon’s. “What are you thinking so hard about?”

“You and Loras both like to point out that I’m always quiet,” Jon retorted, not really wanting to bring up what was on his mind. Not with Robb, at least. It would likely be taken the wrong way and he really didn’t want to cause offense.

“No, we like to point out that you have a tendency to brood when it may behoove you to confide your worries in your trusted friends,” Robb replied with a triumphant smirk. “Which is what you are doing now.”

Jon shifted in his saddle and sighed. Robb wasn’t likely to let this go. Ever since the dismissal of Septa Mordane, and his cousin’s realization that his sisters’ lives had not been as good as he had though, Robb had begun taking his role as “big brother” very seriously. Somehow, Jon, despite only being a few moons younger than Robb, had gotten lumped in as a younger sibling to be protected.

To be honest, Jon wasn’t sure how he felt about that yet. On one hand, after spending years with in King’s Landing with no one caring what happened to him, it was nice to have Robb, along with the rest of the Starks, care enough to want to see him protected. On the other hand, though, between his uncles, Ser Oswell, and, to a lesser extent, Loras, Jon had enough protectors. He’d rather just have Robb as a friend and equal.

He glanced around, making sure no one else was in earshot of them. He didn’t want anyone else to overhear what could be interpreted as an insult to the Starks and the entire North. Only Ser Oswell was near them, Jon’s near constant white shadow, but he was far enough away that their low conversation wouldn’t likely reach him.

“I’m just… not sure I understand this,” Jon began diplomatically. “It seems… cruel.”

Sadistic was actually the word that sprang to mind, but that _definitely_ would be insulting.

Robb looked at him in confusion. “There are beheadings in the south…”

“It’s not the beheading,” he said with a shake of his head, not sure how to explain what wasn’t sitting well with him. “It’s Uncle Ned doing it himself. It makes me think—” He cut himself, hoping the slight heat he felt in his cheeks could be blamed on the cold wind in his face.

“It’s about responsibility,” Robb said patiently. “Our way is the old way. The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. A lord should understand what his sentence means and not hide behind an executioner. It shows respect for the life of the condemned.”

Jon tilted his head to the side, considering his words. Robb definitely made more sense than any of the books in the Red Keep that he had read that mentioned the northern custom. It also made more sense as a practice Uncle Ned would follow. “That sounds very admirable,” he said at last.

Robb gave him a sideways look. “What did it make you think of before?”

He cringed at the question, but he had known it was coming. “Promise you won’t be offended?” he asked, giving him a chagrined grimace. 

“Well now I’m very curious,” he teased lightly. “But I won’t take offense."

Jon sighed. “It made me think of the Mad King and how they say he enjoyed burning people,” he confessed. “And Viserys and how he took perverse pleasure in torturing me and Daenerys. I realize now that it’s nothing like that at all!” he added hastily as Robb’s face turned grim. “And I never actually thought that Uncle Ned would condone something like that. It’s just…”

“It’s just that you’ve had more experience than most with terrible men who abuse their authority to hurt others,” Robb finished for him.

He gave a noncommittal hum, not wanting to touch that topic with a twenty foot lance. Luckily, Bran trotted up on his pony a moment later, having obviously run out of questions to pepper Loras with, as the Tyrell squire was right behind him.

“The men are saying that the deserter has been raving about White Walkers!” Bran told them eagerly. “And about the dead coming alive!”

Jon frowned, glancing at Robb to see if that made any sense to him, but his older cousin was just shaking his head in amusement.

“The White Walkers have been gone for thousands of years, Bran,” Robb told him.

“And if they hadn’t been, they certainly don’t sound like something to be excited about,” Loras quipped with a roll of his eyes.

“What are White Walkers?” Jon asked, feeling like he was missing something.

“You know,” Bran said. “The Others! The things that came with the Long Night, who the Last Hero of the First Men fought to bring the Dawn!”

“Oh,” he said, feeling stupid to have not made the connection. He had never heard them called “White Walkers” before, though. But even in King’s Landing, people knew the tale of the Others and how Bran the Builder built the Wall to keep them out for good. They didn’t believe they actually _existed_ , but they knew the stories. “Has the man gone mad?”

Robb shrugged. “Father said he had been in the Night’s Watch for nearly four decades. Maybe his mind has been addled with age.”

The man didn’t seem addled when they finally reached the execution point and he was brought before Lord Stark. Jon could see the genuine fear in the man’s eyes and was shocked at the relief in his face as Ice swung through the air towards his neck.

Had the man become so mad that his delusions made him welcome death? It was a question that gnawed at him as they began their way back to Winterfell.

Unfortunately, madness did not seem to run in that direction with Jon’s own family. Their madness tended towards the death of others, instead.

His thoughts were interrupted by a plaintive cry somewhere beyond the brush near the road. He frowned as Bran pulled his pony to a halt, already half way dismounted by the time Jon realized he meant to investigate on his own.

“Bran!” he called, a second before Robb’s matching cry. Somehow, he and his cousins had ended up ahead of the others in their party, save for Ser Oswell and Loras. Robb and he were both off their horses in a moment, Robb instantly racing after Bran.

Jon made to follow, but Ser Oswell and Loras were suddenly in his path, backs to him as they forced him into a slower pace. He silently fumed, and he would have barreled through them and after Robb if he hadn’t heard Bran’s delighted cry and known all was well.

Still, he didn’t appreciate being treated like a child who could not take care of himself. He had been doing it for most of his life, after all. There was no reason to coddle him now.

They found Robb and Bran with their arms full of wolf pups. Jon’s eyes widened as he took in the giant beast lying dead nearby. _Direwolf_ pups.

A shuffling at his feet made Jon look down to see a smaller pup with solid white fur nudging at his boots. He bent down to scoop up the pup almost automatically. The pup burrowed into his arms, wiggling as he tried to get closer to Jon’s warmth.

“Six of them for all the Stark children,” Robb declared with a grin, looking back at his father, who had just arrived. Jon couldn’t help but feel pleased at being including in the count.

Ser Oswell, how had been inspecting the deceased mother of the pups, held something up with a frown. “Ironborn arrows,” he informed. “The barbs of the arrowheads are pretty distinctive.”

“Ironborn would not be so bold as to be this inland without attacking our shores first,” Jory Cassel argued.

“They wouldn’t have to be,” Loras pointed out. “The wolf could have been near a shore and been hit with the arrows there. An animal as strong as her could have traveled far without succumbing to her injuries, especially if she were motivated by her pups.”

“The ironborn would be cruel enough to attack an innocent animal for sport,” Ser Rodrik muttered darkly.

“Regardless, it seems the ironborn are a problem that is looming closer than we thought,” Ned remarked grimly.

“But can we keep them, Father?” Bran asked in a rush, too young to care about the ironborn and entirely preoccupied with the wolf pups. “They’re our sigil!”

Jon could tell that Robb was hopeful as well, and he himself couldn’t deny that he felt drawn to the small wolf in his arms.

Uncle Ned gave them a searching look before a small smile flitted momentarily across his lips. “You’ll care for them yourselves. I will not have you wasting the servants time. You will feed them and train them yourselves. It won’t be easy. These are direwolves, not common dogs. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Father,” Bran and Robb intoned as Jon nodded in agreement.

“They may died anyway,” he warned. 

“They won’t die,” Robb said, a determined gleam in his eyes. “We won’t let them.”

Jon shared a grin with Robb as Uncle Ned turned back to the road after giving his assent and Bran ran ahead with a black pup in one arm and a silver pup in the other. Jon shook his head at his younger cousin as he took a squirming grey pup from Robb.

“I suppose if you can’t have a dragon, a giant direwolf at your side is the next best thing,” Loras commented with a smile as they trekked back to the road.

“I’d choose the wolf over the dragon, I think,” Jon replied, smiling as the grey pup opened her golden eyes and batted playfully at the smaller white pup. “Wolves are more loyal.”

tbc…


End file.
